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V 


THE 

AMERICAN  ORATOR ; 

OR, 

aJ]fc0ant  Cjctract^  in  ©to^e  anb  ^^otttp; 

Comprehending  a  diversity  of 

ORATORICAL  SPECIMENS, 

OF  THE 

ELOqUEXCE  OF  POPULAR  ASSEMBLIES, 
OF  THE  BAR,  OF  THE  PULPIT,  &g. 

Principally  intended  for  the  use  of 

SCHOOLS  AJ^B  ACADEMIES. 

TO     WHICH    ARE     PUEFIXED, 

A  DISSEETATIOX 

ON 

ORATORICAL  DELIVERY, 

AND  THE 

OUTLIJK'ES   OF  GESTURE. 

www  www 

*  There  is  as  much  Eloquence  in  the  Tone  of  Voice,  in  the  Lookj 
and  in  the  Gesture  of  an  Orator,  as  in  the  Use  of  his  Words.' 

VWWX/VX/VWV 

BY  INCREASE  COOKE» 

WVVWWWW 

SECOND  EDITION. 

VwwA/vwwn» 

IIARTFORD : 

PUBLISHED  BY  OLIVER  D.  COOKE, 
1814 


District  of  Connecticvt,  to  wit. 

-Ue  it  remembered,  That  on  the  19th  day  of  October,  In 

the  thirty-sixth  year  of  the  Independence  of  the  United  States  of 
America,  FNCREASE  COOKE,  of  the  said  distaict,  hath  deposit- 
ed in  this  office  the  title  ot  a  book,  the  right  whereof  he  claims  as 
author,  in  the  words  follow:ng,  to  wit : 

"  The  American  Orator  ;  or,  Elegant  Extracts  in  Prose  and  Po- 
etry ;  comprehending  a  diversity  of  Oratorical  Specimens  of  the 
Eloquence  of  Popular  Assemblies,  of  the  Bar,  of  the  Pulpit,  8tc. 
principally  intended  for  the  use  of  Schools  and  Academies.  To 
which  are  prefixed,  a  Dissertation  on  Oratorical  Delivery,  and 
the  Outlines  of  Gesture——*  There  is  as  much  Eloquence  in  the 
Tone  of  Voice,  in  the  Look,  and  in  the  Gesture  of  an  Orator,  as 
in  the  Use  of  his  Woids.' — —By  Increase  Cooke." 

In  conformity  to  the  act  of  the  Congress  of  the  United  States, 
entitled  "  An  Act  for  the  encouragement  of  learning,  by  securing 
the  copies  of  maps,  cliarts,  f.nd  books,  to  the  authors  and  proprie- 
tors of  such  copies,  during  the  times  therein  mentioned." 

HENRY  W.  EDWARDS, 
Clerk  of  the  District  of  Connecticut. 

A  true  copy  of  record,  examined  and  sealed  bv  me, 

H.  W.  EDWARDS, 
Clerk  of  the  UiHrict  ofCoiineciictit. 


Hale  &  Hosmer,  and  Peter  B.  Gleason  &.  Co.  Printers. 


P/V  LTBI?ARY 

4_-,    .        UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 

TX  00  SANTA  BARBARA 

/  8 1 4 

TO  THE 

YOUTH  OF  AMERICA, 

AVITH  A  VIEW   TO  THEIR 

GEXEltAL   EXCELLEJS'CE, 

IS 
ftnoUJlctJgc,  €a^te,  anti  ^ittm> 

THE  FOLLOWING 

C03IP1LATI0N 

JS  RESPECTFULLY  IJ^SCRIBED, 
BY 

THE  AUTHOR. 


J^civ-JIavtn, 
October,  1811. 


ADVERTISEMENT. 


X  HIS  Publication  is  principally  intended 
for  the  accommodation  of  Teachers  of  Elo- 
cution, and  of  Young  Persons,  who  are  in 
the  course  of  their  Education  :  yet  to  Read- 
ers of  every  class — to  the  private  Citizen,  and 
to  the  Christian,  as  well  as  to  the  advanced 
Scholar,  and  to  the  Orator, — it  presents  an 
agreeable  companion,  particularly  suited  to  fill 
up  short  intervals  of  accidental  leisure. 

A  general  view  of  the  variety  compre° 
hended  in  this  volume,  with  the  names  of  the 
Authors  from  whose  works  extracts  have  been 
made,  so  far  as  they  could  be  ascertained  with 
certainty,  is  exhibited  in  the  following  Table 
OF  Contents. 

The     Dissertation    on    Oratorical 

Delivery,  and  the  Outlines  of  Gesture, 
A2 


VI  ADVERTISEMliNTs 

which  are  prefixcc',  arc  mostly  abstrac'ed  from 
Chapman's  Orator,  and  are  fuller  and  more  mi- 
nute, it  is  believed,  than  what  is  commonly  to 
be  met  with  in  compilations  of  this  sort. 

Living  Authors,  it  is  hoped,  will  not  be 
displeased  that  useful  and  elegant  passages  have 
been  borrowed  of  them,  since,  as  they  wrote  to 
reform  and  improve  the  age,  they  will  perceive 
at  once,  that  to  place  their  most  important  in- 
btiuctions,  and  salutary  admonitions,  in  the 
hands  of  Young  Persons,  and  to  adapt  them  to 
the  use  of  Schools  and  Academies,  is  to 
contribute  most  effectually  to  the  accomplish- 
ment of  their  benevolent  design.  The  works 
themselves  at  large  are  so  voluminous  and  ex- 
pensive, as  to  be  precluded  from  a  general  cir- 
culation— extracts,  therefore,  are  highly  expe- 
dient, or  rather  absolutelv  necessarv. 


COJSU'EJVTS. 


DISSERTATION  ON  ORATORICAL  DELI- 
VERY. 


PART  I. 

Readings  Recitation^  Declamatiorty  and  Oratory. 

Page  13 

PART  II. 

Application  of  the  Inflections  of  the  Voice.     .     .    2^ 

PART  III. 

Modulation  and  Management  of  the  Voice*     .     .    43 


Outlines  of  Gesture. 


PART  IV. 


54 


AMERICAN  ORATOR. 

PART  I. 

Pieces  in  Prose. 


CHAP.  I. 
Paragraphs.  7\ 

CHAP.  IL 

^''arrative  Fieces. 

Section  1.  Carazan's  Vision.     .     .     Adventurer.  91 

Section  2.  Abdailah  and  Subat.   .     .     Buchanan.  95 

Section  3.  Character  of  a  Clergyman.    Lounger.  99 

Section  4.  Relis^ion  and  Superstition  Contrasted.  100 

Section  5.  TheJusticeofProvidence.^^£/-yen^urer.l06 

Section  6.  Review  of  Life,     .     .     .     Foster,       110 


vi& 


CONTENTS. 


Section 

1. 

Section 

2.  H 

Section 

3. 

St'ction 

4. 

Section 

5. 

Section 

6. 

Section 

7. 

Section 

8. 

Section 

9. 

Section 

10. 

Section 

11. 

Section 

12. 

Section 

13. 

Section 

14. 

Section 

15. 

Section 

16. 

Section 

17. 

CHAP.  III. 

Didactic   Pieces^ 

On  Study Bacon.  118 

anilet's  Directions  to  the  pkycrs.  S/ia.  119 

Eloquence  and  Oratory.     .   Tlulnval.  121 

Of  Elocution ib.  122 

Faults  of  Conversation.      Guardiayi.  123 

On  Satirical  Wit.     .     .     .      Stcrnt.  124 

Oa  Successful  Speaking.      Alaury.  126 

The  Orator  should  study  himself,  ib.  127 

Wit  injures  Eloquence.     .     .     .   ib.  128 

On  the  Production  of  Ideas.     .  '  ib.  129 

Oratory z6.  132 

Remarks  on  Reading.     .  Deinology.  133 

Method  in  Spe.king ib.  135 

Ancient  Eloquence.     .     .    Fordyce.  137 

Women  polish  Sc  improve  Society.  zA.  139 

Fondness  for  Fashion  injurious,    ib.  142. 

Remarks  on  Preaching.       .      .,'inon.  144 

CHAP.  IV. 


De-ycri/itive  Pieces. 

Sect.  1.  Remarkable  Faults  of  bad  Speakers.  Cresol.  148 

Section     2.  On  Female  Attractions.     .   Greviile.  149 

Section     3.  Fiiriilla  and  Amelia ib.  150 

Section     4.  Character  of  a  young  Lady.     Kaims.  151 

Seciion     5.   Sensibility.       .....       Sterne.  153 

Section     6.  Lil)erty  and  Slavery ib.  154 

Seciion     7.  Tlie  Palace  of  Pleasure.       Fordyce.  155 

Section     8.  The  Tempi,  of  Virtue.     .      ,     .  ib  160 
Section     9.  Descent  into  the  I)olgoath  Mine. 

SilU'rian.  163 

CHAP.  V. 

Pathetic  Pieces. 


Section  1.  The  Blind  Preacher.  .  .  Anon.  170 
Sect.  2.  Dr.  Mason'sinterview  with  Gen.Hamilton.  174 
Section  3.  The  Close  of  Life.  ...  Blair.  178 
Section     4.  The  Dying  Infidel.     .     .     .   Saurin.   180 


CONTENTS.  IX 

CHAP.  VI. 

Promiscuous  Pieces. 

Section  I.  Novels  and  Romances.  .  Foster.  183 
Section  2.  Duelling.  .  Beauties  of  History.  185 
Section  S.CompendiousView  oftheKiblc.Por/ews  191 
Sect.  4.  The  Commencement  of  a  Century.  Anon.  200 
Section     5.  On  Writing  Letters.     .....     205 

PART  II. 

Different  Kinds  of  Fublic  Speaking. 
CHAP.  I. 

Eloquence  of  Pofiular  Assemblies.  209 

Section     1.  TheEuIogiumofthePerfcctSpcaker.  210 
Section     2.  Eulogium  of  Antoinette.     .    Burke.  211 
Section  3.  Panegyric  on  tke  British  Constitution.  z6.  21  2 
Section     4.  Invectives  against  Hastings. 'SAer/f/cn.2  13 
Section     5.  Burke  on  the  Eloquence  of  Sheridan.  216 
Section     6.  Eulogium  on  Lord  Chatham.  Junius.  216 
tC^^<^^'  7.  Cicero  &c  Demosthenes  compared.  Camb.  217 
Sect.  8.  Portraits  oflMahomet  and  Jesus  contrasted.  218 
Sect.  9.  Eulogium  on  the  Duke  of  Bedford.  Fox.  219 
Section   10.  Character  of  alowly  Hero  illustrated.  221 
Section   11.   Walpolc  against  Mr,  Pitt.     .     .     .     222 

Section  12.  Mr.  Pitt's  Reply.     ......      223 

Section   13.  Eulogy  on  Washington.      .      Ames.  225 
Section   14.  Eulogy  on  Hamilton.       .     .     .      ib.  229 

Section  15.  Eulogy  on  Fisher  Ames.  .  Anon.  234 
Section  16.  The  Character  of  Brutus.     .    Ames.  240 

CHAP.  XL 

Eloquence  of  the  Bar.  244 

Section  1.  Paul's  defence  before  Agrippa.  .  248 
Section  2.  Sentence  passed  on  John  Slater.  Wild's.  249 
Section     3.  Speech. in  favour  of  a  School  Master. 

Dr.  Johnson.  251 


X  CONTENIS. 

Section     4.  Erskine  against  Williams,  pub- 
lisher of  Paine's  Age  of  Reason.     ^5, 
Section     5.  On  the  Charactcrofa  Jiiclge.  Martzn.  237 
Seciion     6.   Burr  and  Bieiuierhasset.      .      Jiirt.  258 
Section     7.  Ersknie  against  Demosthenes.'     .       263 

Section     8.  Emmet's  Vindication 266 

Section     9.   Griffin  against  Chcetham,  for  a  libel.  269 

Another  part  of  the  same  Speech.       275 

Section     10.  Cicero's  Oriition  against  Vcrrcs.       278 

CHAP.  III. 

Jtlocjuerice  of  the  Pulpit. 

Section     1.  Remarks  on  Pulpit  Eloquence.     .       283 

Section     2.  The  Commandments 287 

Section     3.  Nathan's  Parable 288 

Section  4.  Parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son.  .  .  289 
Sect.  5.  The  Atheist,  his  Attainments,  &c.  Foster.  290 
Section  6.  The  Omnipresence  of  the  Deity,  ib.  292 
Section  7.  The  Liberty  of  Man  and  the  Fore- 
knowledge of  God.  Horsley.  296 
Sect.  8.  Character  &  Government  oi  God.  Maaon.  298 
Section  9.  Divmity  of  Jesus  Christ.  .  .  ib.  SOI 
Seciion  10.  Sufferings  of  our  Saviour.  .  Jay.  305 
Section  1 1.  Pure  Religion  and  genuine  Devo- 
tion. Faivcctt.  308 
Sect.  12.  Transilionfrom  Time  to  Eternity. /-o^an.  3 10 

Section    13.   Early  Piety /6.  311 

Section  1 4.  Devotion  a  source  of  Happiness.  Blair.  3 1 3 
Section   15.  Reflections  on  God  as  our  Creator. 

Fa-wcett.  315 
Section  1 6.  Triumph  of  Life  and  Death.  Zolicofer.  319 
Section    17.  Domestic  Happiness.     .     .     .     Jay.  324 

Section    18.  On  Patience ib.  327 

Seciion   19.  Christianity  a  Practical  Principle. 

Hannah  More.  330 
CHAP.  IV. 


Select   Sfieeches. 

Section     1.   On  Pi*cjudice Dexter.  335 

Section     2.  Disquisition  on  Patriotism.     .     .     .  337 

Section     3.  Burke's  Eulogy  oi)  his  Son.      .     .  33^ 


CONTENTS. 


XI 


The  importance  of  the  Blessings  of  Union,  ./ar/.  341 
Section     4,  Dangerof  War  between  the  States. 

Ha  milt  071,  343 

Section     5.  Subject  continued ib.  345 

Section     6.  Character  of  Moses.     .     .     Dwight.  348 

Section     7.  The  Force  of  Talents 352 

Section     8.  Washington's  Speech  to  the  first 

Congress.  554 
Section  9.  Extracts  from  Washington's  Farewell.  357 

PART  III. 

ricces  in  Toetry. 

General  Rules  for  reading  Foelru.  oG? 

CHAP.  I. 

■A'arrative  Pieces. 

Section     1 .  Verses,  the  Sound  of  which  is  an 

Echo  to  the  Sense.  36S 
Section  2,  Othello's  Apology.  .  S/iaks/icare.  365 
Sect.  3.  Discourse  betw  een  Adam  Sc  Eve.  Millon.  367 

CHAP.  n. 

Didactic  Pieces. 

Section  1.  Nothing  formed  in  vain.  TJioniHon,  370 
Sect.  2.  National  Prejudices  and  Slavery.  Cotvjier.'ilX 
Sect.  3.  Reflections  on  a  Future  State.  Thomson.  372 
Section  4.  On  Versification.  ....  Pofie,  373 
Section     5.  On  Pride ib.  375 

CHAP.  HI. 


Descriptive  Pieces. 

Section  1..  The  Morning  in  Summer.  Thomson ,  2i (3 
Section  2.  The  Sabbath  Morning.  .  Sabbath.  577 
Sect.  3.  A  Paraphrase  on  the  13th  ch.  of  1  Corinth.  378 
Sect.  4,  An  improved  Imagination,  8cc,   Aken&idc.  380 


CONTENTSk 


CHAP.    IV. 


Pathrtic  Pieces. 


Section 
Section 
Sc  clion 
Section 


Wi,  t    t  Miseries  of  Life.     Thomson.'' 282 

Leo^'idus's  Farewell 383 

A  Fum-ral.     .     .    Prom  the  Sabbath.  384 
TliC  Grave ,    JDtair.  38.') 


CHAP.  V. 

Promiscuous  Pieces. 

Section  1.  Collins's  Ode  on  the  Passions.     .     .  387 

Section  2.  A  Tea  Party.     .     .     .    Salmagundy,  390 

Section  3.  The  three  Black  Crows.     .    Bijrom.  391 

Section  4.  The  Mariner's  Dream.      #    .     .     .     393 

PART  IV. 

Dialogues. 
CHAP.  I. 


Section     I.  A  Proposal  of  Marriage 395 

Section  2,  Carey's  Lecture  on  Mimicry.     ,     .     397 

Section  3.  Addison  and  Swift.     .     .     Littleton.  399 

Section  4.  Parental  Love.     .     .     .      John  Bull.  403 

Section  5.  Conjugal  Love.     .     .     Honey-Moon.  406 

i>cction  6.  Speech  of  RoUa.  Sheridan's  Pizarro.  408 


DISSERTATION 

ox 
OUATOUICAL  DELIVEUr. 


PART  I. 


Reading,  Recitation,  Declamation,  and  Oratory. 

Thb  general  objects  of  public  speaking  are,  in- 
struction, persuasion,  or  entertainment.  These  ob- 
jects are  sometimes  kept  distinct,  sometimes  they  are 
combined  in  various  proportions. 

In  their  various  modes  of  exercise,  these  objects 
will  attain  their  ends,  that  is,  succeed  in  influencing 
the  hearer  in  the  degree  proposed,  not  only  by  the 
interesting  matter  which  may  be  presented  to  him, 
but  also  by  the  manner  in  which  it  is  presented. 
The  manner  is  called  the  delivery.  And  the  ad- 
vantages of  good  delivery  are  such,  as  to  conceal  in 
some  degree  the  blemishes  of  the  composition,  or  the 
matter  delivered,  and  to  add  lustre  to  its  beauties; 
in  so  much,  that  a  good  composition,  well  delivered, 
shall,  with  any  popular  audience,  succeed  better  in 
its  object,  whether  that  be  instruction,  persuasion,  or 
entertainment,  than  a  superior  composition,  not  de- 
livered so  Mell. 

.  The  modes  adopted  in  public  speaking  are,  read- 
ing, recitation,  declamation,  oratory,  and  acting. 
Of  which  the  tJiree  first  are  often  practised  for  the 
puipose  of  exercise  or  preparation,  as  well  as  on  re- 
al occasions. 

B 


'4  A  Dissertation  on 

Reading  mny  l)c  defined,  the  art  of  delivcriurf 
written  language  u'illi  propriely,  force,  and  elegance. 
This,  if  not  the  simplest  inode  of  public  speaking, 
is,  among  cultivated  nations,  the  most  useful  and 
the  easiest.  Because,  any  man  can,  in  this  mode, 
deliver  the  sentiments  of  the  wisest  of  all  ages  and 
nations,  in  language  already  prepared  and  approv- 
ed; and  the  public  speaker  has,  on  ordinary  occa- 
sions, only  to  pronounce  intcUi<{ibtij,  w  liat  he  has  be- 
fore hira  ;  or,  if  he  would  perfectly  discharge  his  of- 
fice on  higher  occasions,  impressivcli/.  Reading  may 
be  described  under  the  following  kinds,  begin- 
ning from  that  ^^ hich  requires  the  lowest  eJlorts  of 
the  talents  of  delivery,  and  proceeding  to  that 
w  hich  requires  the  highest.  The  scale  of  reading, 
^vill  then  be  disposed  thus :  1.  Intelligible.  2.  Cor- 
rect. 3.  Impressive.  4.  Rhetorical.  5.  Dramatic. 
G.  Epic. 

The  lowest  degree  of  reading  aloud  for  the  in- 
formation of  others,  m  hich  can  be  admitted  as  use- 
ful to  the  public,  is  that  which  is  named  intelligible 
reading.  To  a  reader  of  this  class,  the  following 
are  the  only  requisites,  good  articulation,  proper 
attention  to  pauses  and  accents,  and  sufficient  etibrt 
of  voice,  to  render  himself  audible  to  all  concern- 
ed. 

To  the  articulation,  pauses,  accent,  and  eiTorts 
of  voice,  necessary  to  render  a  reader  fully  intel- 
ligible, the  correct  reader  must  add  something 
more  ;  the  additional  requisites  for  him  are  em- 
phasis, purity  of  pronunciation,  and  suitable  de- 
meanor. The  correct  reader  must  evince  his  own 
just  conception  of  what  he  reads,  by  applying  pro- 
per emphases,  which  serve  as  touches  of  light  in  a 
picture  to  bring  forward  the  principal  objects.  He 
must  study  purity  of  pronunciation,  that  he  may 
not  offend,  and  distract  the  attention  of  his  hear- 
ers, by  diverting  it  from  his  subject,  and  turning 
it  upon  himself.     Upon  this  principle,  it  is  neces- 


Oratorical  Delivery.  *     16 

sary  that  he  be  most  careful  not  to  offend  by  affec- 
tation; which,  even  in  a  greater  degree  than  pro- 
vincial vulgarity  itself,  disturbs  the  attention  from 
the  proper  objects  of  public  speaking,  persuasion, 
and  instruction. 

In  addition  to  the  requisites  necessary  to  the 
correct  reader,  the  impressive  reader  must  possess 
the  folloNving :  expression  of  the  voice,  expres- 
sion  of  countenance,  direction  of  the  eye,  variety 
of  manner  as  to  rapidity  of  dehvcry,  and  rhetorical 

pauses. Hence,    impressive  reading    comprehends 

two  entire  divisions  of  the  art  of  deUvery,  the  modu- 
lation of  the  voice,  and  the  expression  of  the  coun- 
tenance ;  of  gesture,  the  third  division,  it  partakes 
but  little,  and  thai  little,  is  very  different  from  what 
is  proper  for  oratory. 

VV'ilhin  th3  whole  range,  through  which  the  exer- 
cise of  this  valuable  talent,  the  art  of  reading,  is  ex- 
tended, impressive  reading  will  be  found  no  where 
60  requisite  as  in  delivering  the  Scriptures.  Their 
corapo.ntion  is  of  that  original  and  various  charac- 
ter, which  demands  every  effort  on  his  part,  who 
is  called  upon  to  deliver  them  for  the  instruction  of 
others.  Hardly  is  there  a  chapter,  which  does  not 
contain  something,  \\  hich  requires  the  most  impres- 
sive reading ;  as  remonstrance,  threatening,  com- 
mand, encouragement,  sublime  description,  awful 
judgments.  The  narrative  is  interrupted  by  fre- 
qu^'.nt  and  often  unexpected  transitions ;  by  bold 
and  unu>uil  figures ;  and  by  precepts  of  most  ex- 
tensive application,  and  most  admirable  use. 

In  the  narrative,  the  reader  should  deliver  him- 
self with  a  suita!)Ic  simplicity  and  gravity  of  demea- 
nor. In  the  tran-:ilio!is,  which  arf  oft-ti  rapid,  he 
should  manifest  a  quick  C(inception,  and  by  rhetori- 
cal pauses  and  suitable  changes  of  voice,  express 
and  render  intelligible,  the  new  matter  or  ch  mge  of 
scene.  In  the  figurntive  and  subiime,  which  evi;ry 
where  abound,  his  voice  should  i)-  sonorous,  and 
his  countenance  expressive  of  the  elevation  of  his 


IG  A  Dissertation  on 

su1)jcct.  In  tlie  i)reccpts,  he  should  deliver  him- 
self with  judgnitnt  and  discretion  ;  and  when  he 
rrpcats  the  words  and  precepts,  as  recorded  of  our 
Lord  himself,  with  more  distinguished  mildness, 
mingled  with  dis^nified  authority.  Such  reading, 
,woald  be  a  perpetual  and  luminous  commentary 
on  the  Sacred  "NVritings  ;  and  would  convey  more 
solid  information,  than  the  most  learned  and  bril- 
liant sermons. 

If  to  the  impressive  style  of  reading,  be  added 
such  a  degree  of  acquaintance  with  the  subject,  as 
tlidt  it  shall  be  nearly  committed  to  memory,  and 
that  it  be  also  accompanied  a\  ith  gesture  to  a  cer- 
tain degree,  and  more  decided  expression  of  the 
eyes  and  countenance,  it  constitutes  a  more  forci- 
ble style,  which  may  be  termed  rhetorical  reading. 
This  style  of  reading,  is  adapted  to  popular  dis- 
courses from  the  pulpit,  which  if  intended  to  be  so 
delivered,  should  be  composed  in  all  the  form  of 
a  regular  oration.  Because,  as  one  subject  of  dis- 
course, requires  a  diilerent  style  of  composition,  it 
requires  also  a  different  manner  of  reading.  Cor- 
rect reading  suits  a  di'^course  on  evidences ;  impres- 
sive reading,  on  exhortation ;  and  rhetorical  read- 
ing, those  subjects  which  call  for  the  higher  exertions 
of  pulpit  eloquence,  as  funeral  orations,  great  pub- 
lic occasions,  the  solicitation  of  alms  for  useful  cha- 
rities, and  in  all  discourses  where  the  orator  has 
to  excite  passion  and  emotion.  Public  reading  with- 
in these  limits,  m  ill  be  found,  if  not  capable  of  ail 
the  brilliancy  that  can  be  desired,  yet  to  possess 
great  and  solid  advantages.  To  read  well,  should 
be  esteemed  a  very  high  attainment  in  pul)lic  speak- 
ing ;  and  no  labour  should  be  thought  too  arduous 
for  its  acquirement,  by  those  who  are  likely  to  be 
called  upon,  in  any  situation  to  read  in  public ; 
that  is,  J)y  any  men  of  liberal  education  or  rank 
in  life,  above  the  lowest  vulgar ;  each  of  whom  will 
probably  on  some  occasion,  be  obliged  to  exhibit 
liis  talent. 


Oratorical  Delivcri/.  lY 

Reading  in  private  is  seldom  carried  farther  than 
that  description  called  impressive.  But  in  the  read- 
ing of  a  play,  when  one  person  goes  through  the 
v\  hole  drama,  a  manner  is  almost  necessarily  adopt- 
ed, which  may  be  called  dramatic  reading.  In  this 
style  of  reading,  the  voice,  the  countenance,  and 
the  delivery,  as  to  rapidity,  or  slowness,  force  or 
feebleness,  are  nearly  suited  to  the  character  which 
is  supposed  at  any  time  to  speak ;  and  even  pro- 
vincial and  foreign  accents  are  also  in  some  degree 
imitated  ;  moderate  gesture  of  the  hand  is  used,  ac- 
companied now  and  then  with  the  head,  in  pas- 
sages requiring  particular  discrimination.  But  the 
efforts  pf  the  reader  in  mere  private  and  family  so- 
ciety, seldom  go  farther. 

The  talent  for  dramatic  reading  in  its  highest  ex- 
cellence is  very  rare.  It  includes  mA  only  all  the 
requisites  for  correct ^  impressive,  and  dramatic  read- 
ing of  the  ordinary  kind,  which  is  sufHcient  for 
the  mere  presenting  the  scenes  of  a  play  to  a  domes- 
tic circle  ;  Jiut  the  fine  dramatic  reader  must  be 
possessed  of  the  quickest  conception,  and  of  an  eye 
which  intuitively  comprehends  the  whole  dialogue 
at  a  glance,  of  a  versatility  of  manner  capable  of 
adapting  itself  to  every  character,  and  such  a  pow- 
er of  modulation  of  the  voice  as  shall  also  present 
each  changing  character  to  the  hearer,  within  the 
bounds  of  decorous  imitation,  without  naming  him, 
which  would  often  break  the  interest  of  the  scene  ; 
and  above  all,  he  must  possess  a  true  and  lively 
feeling  of  the  situation  and  interest  of  every  person 
in  the  drama. 

History,  which  is  tlie  most  improving  subject  of 
private  readirig,  in  the  mere  narrative  parfj,  re- 
quires no  greater  efforts  on  the  part  of  thi;  rea  ler, 
than  the  style  which  is  termed  rorrrct.  Fut  in 
lively  descriptions  of  places,  situations,  and  great 
actions,  impressive  vcTidin^  is  altogeth-r  iKce.'sary; 
and   in  the   speeches  which  sometimes  occur,  rffc 

B2 


16  A  Disscriution  on 

torical  reaUiiig   should  in  some  measure,  be  intro- 
duced. 

The  same  circumstances  occur  more  frequentlj'^ 
and  more  heiglitencd  in  epic  poetry ;  and,  therefore, 
as  well  as  on  account  of  the  lofty  measure  and  ele- 
vated language,  an  epic  poem  requires  of  the  read- 
er a  more  dignified  and  exalted  strain,  and  a  man- 
ner almost  constantly  sustained  above  the  ordinary 
level.  Descriptions,  in  such  poetry,  abound  more, 
and  are  more  highly  ornamented,  than  in  the  most  in- 
teresting history  ;  similes  and  other  poetical  figures, 
are  introduced  in  all  their  grandeur  and  beauty ; 
battles  are  described  with  the  most  terrible  and 
striking  precision,  and  speeches  are  delivered  with 
all  the  ornaments,  and  all  the  powers  of  eloquence. 
Thus,  every  tiling-  sublime  and  beautiful,  awful  and 
pathetic,  being  assembled  in  an  epic  poem,  as  in  a 
tragedy,  the  reader  must  be  all  awake,  if  he  would 
deliver  either  with  just  eifect;  he  must  be  filled 
with  his  subject,  governed  by  taste  and  judgment, 
alive  to  feeling,  and  inspired,  like  the  poet  himself, 
with  a  degree  of  enthusiasm. 

Of  Recitation  and  Declamation. 

If  tlie  public  speaker  desire  to  give  to  the  com- 
position, A\hich  he  delivers,  more  interest  than  it 
can  derive  from  mere  reading ;  or  rather  desire  to 
give  it  the  highest  interest  of  which  it  is  capable ; 
he  must  commit  it  perfectly  to  memory,  and  adorn 
and  enforce  it  with  all  tlie  aids  of  the  various  mo- 
dulations of  the  voice,  expression  of  the  counte- 
nance, and  suitable  gesture.  So  tliat,  even  though 
he  slvould  deliver  the  sentiments  of  another  person, 
he  must  appear  altogether  to  adopt  and  feel,  and 
recommend  them  as  liis  own.  AMien  the  composi- 
tion thus  delivered  is  poetical,  this  mode  of  pub- 
lic speaking  is  cilled  recitation.  When  it  is  argu- 
mentative, and  pronounced  or  composed  on  an  ima- 
ginary occasionj  for  the  purpose  of  exercising  the 


Oratorical  Deliver)/.  1^ 

speaker's  rhetorical  talents,  it  is  called  declamation. 
And  when  the  speaker  delivers  in  this  manner,  a 
composition  of  his  own  on  a  real  occasion,  it  is  ora- 
tory ;  for  the  acquiring  of  the  external  art  of  which, 
recitation  and  declajnation  are  chiefly  practised. 

Recitation,  as  not  implying  the  composition  of 
the  speaker,  may  be  considered  according  to  the 
order  of  the  requisite  acquirements  in  the  place, 
immediately  after  rhetorical  reading;  to  all  the  re- 
quisites for  which,  recitation  must  add  perfect 
memory  and  suitable  gesture.  In  recitation,  and 
all  the  other  modes  of  public  speaking,  the  whole 
person  is,  or  may  be  exhibited,  and  every  part  takes 
its  share  in  the  gesture.  Recitation  being  properly 
the  rhetorical  delivery  of  poetical  compositions  and 
pieces  of  imagination,  the  performer  should  stand 
apart  from  the  company.  In  its  first  degrees,  re- 
citation is  practiced  in  private,  as  a  rhetorical  ex- 
ercise by  young  persons ;  in  its  most  perfect  de- 
grees, it  is  exhibited  in  public,  as  a  very  high  spe- 
cies of  dramatic  entertainment.  The  great  variety 
in  poetical  campositioti  and  works  of  imagination, 
must  aiford  equal  variety  for  the  modes  of  reci- 
tation. 

Declamation,  wliich  is  properly  a  prose  exercise, 
composed  by  the  speaker  on  some  imaginary  sub- 
ject or  occasion,  on  account  of  the  requisite  ability 
in  composition,  as  well  as  in  the  exercise  of  all 
the  arts  of  dt^livery,  may  be  considered  as  next  in 
order  above  recitation.  The  ancient  Roman  ora- 
tors bestowed  extraordinary  attention  upon  the  com- 
position and  practice  of  declamation. 

Cicero  continued  this  practice  many  years  after  he 
had  arrived  at  the  liighest  eminence  as  an  orator ; 
and,  after  his  example,  the  most  celebrated  of  the 
Roman  orators  followed  the  same  plan. 


JO  A  Dissertation  on 

Of  Oratory. 

Oratory,  which  is  puMic  speaking  on  real  and 
intCiesting  occasions,  is  the  most  sj)Iendid  object  of 
ail  literary  exertion,  and  the  highest  scope  of  ail  tho 
study  and  practice  of  the  art.  To  oratory  belongs 
Avhatever  tlie  perfection  of  composition  can  pro- 
dace,  as  well  as  all  which  tlie  jierfection  of  deli- 
very can  externally  recommend  and  enforce.  Ora- 
tory is  the  power  of  reasoning,  united  to  the  va- 
rious ajts  of  persuasion,  presented  l)y  external  grace, 
and  by  the  whole  energy  of  the  human  power?. 
Reasoning  divested  of  rlietorical  composition  and 
rhetorical  delivery,  becomes  strict  demonstration. 
Such  reasoning  is  foimd  in  logic,  mathematics, 
evidences  of  facts,  and  law  arguments,  lleasoning, 
in  this  sense,  is  distinct  fxom  oratory :  both,  in- 
deed, aim  at  bringing  over  men  to  their  opinions, 
but  by  different  means.  Reasoning,  appeals  to  the 
understanding  alone ;  oratory  deals  with  the  pas- 
sions also.  Reasoning,  proceeds  directly  to  the 
truth)  and  exhibits  it  in  the  simplest  languagfe. 
Oratory  chooses  the  most  favouralile  view  of  the 
su')jcct,  engages  the  attention  of  the  hearer  by  the 
d-;t^il  of  circumstances,  interests  him  by  tiie  colour' 
ing  whicli  he  gives  them,  d-'lights  hira  by  ornament, 
and,  having  won  his  favourable  attention,  appeals  at 
once  to  his  understanding  and  to  his  heart.  When 
the  subject  admits  of  demonstration,  reasoning  is  the 
mist  powerful;  it  is  irresistiljle :  but  wheri  strict 
demonstration  cannot  be  had,  oratory  has  then,  the 
advantage.  And  since,  in  a  very  few  of  the  most 
interesting  inquiries,  which  occupy  the  attention  of 
men,  strict  demonstration  can  ^>e  obtained,  so  the 
demand  for  the  talents  of  the  orator  is  frequent  and 
indispensable  in  the  business  of  life..  Reasoning 
is,  th 'refore,  applied  principally  to  philosophical 
research,  and  to  objects  of  science  :  oratory  to  the 
interests  of  m^n,  and  to  objects  admitting"  choice. 
It  is  an   advantage  which  oratory   posses .-es  above 


Oratorical  Deliveri/.  21 

reasoning,  that  oratory  constantly  avails  itself  of 
reasoning ;  but  strict  reasoning  does  not  call  in  the 
aid  of  oratory. 

The  public  speakers  of  this  country  have  been  ce- 
lelirated  as  excellent  reasoners ;  while  their  orators 
liave  been  few.  For  this,  various  reasons  have  been 
assigned:  the  truest,  perhaps,  may  be  indolence 
with  respect  to  the  requisite  labour,  and  inattention 
to  the  high  value  of  eloquence ;  as  to  natural  in- 
ability, every  idea  of  such  an  impediment  is  to  be 
rejected,  as  no  less  false  than  unworthy  of  a  learned 
and  independent  people.  An  extreme  attachment 
to  every  thing  which  bears  the  appearance  of  demon- 
stration, may  also,  in  part,  account  for  the  paucity 
of  orators  among  us.  Accurate  reasoners  ahect  to 
despise  the  assistance  of  oratory,  and  to  consider 
truth  and  reason^  wlien  fairly  presented,  sufficient 
to  make  their  way.  If  sophistry  could  never  de- 
lude, under  the  pretence  of  demonstration,  and  if 
men  were  constituted  without  passions,  reason  w'ould, 
indeed,  be  sufficiently  powerful  ;  but  the  passions  , 
hold  such  a  dangerous  correspondence  with  the  un- 
derstanding, that  mere  reason  cannot  always  vin- 
dicate the  truth  ;  therefore  the  aid  of  eloquence  is 
required,  in  order  to  expose  their  treachery  :  and  it 
were  well  for  mankind,  if  the  triple  alliance  of  rea- 
son, truth,  and  eloquence,  proved  always  victorious. 

Our  puhlic  speakers,  it  has  been  often  remarked, 
content  th  mselves  with  reasoning  well ;  and,  owing 
to  some  of  the  causes  mentioned,  indoK^nce,  inatten- 
tion, and  the  want  of  splendid  examples,  aim  at  no 
higher  excellence,  and  stop  short  of  eloquence. 

The  true  foundation  of  oratory,  no  doubt,  is 
sound  logic ;  but  then,  it  should  be  remembered, 
that  it  is  only  the  foundation  ;  and  that  to  complete 
the  plan,  the  superstructure,  with  all  its  accommo- 
dations, and  with  all  its  ornaments,  is  wanting.  To 
be  an  orator,  is  more  dilKcult  than  to  be  a  reasoner, 
and  demands,  in  addition,  many  other  talents  and 
i3erfectiouf,  both  natural  and  acquired.     The  con? 


22  A  Dissertation  on 

Eiimmate  orator  is,  therefore,  rare,  and  a  wonder  in 
every  age  and  in  every  country.  And,  perhaps, 
Dtmoslhencs  in  Athens,  and  Cicero  in  Home,  were 
tlie  only  perfect  orators  (if  even  they  reached  per- 
fection) wlioni  the  world  Jias  yet  seen.  But  there 
are  many  degrees  of  excellence  far  below  theirs, 
and  l)elow  perfection,  by  reachintj  any  of  ^\l^ich, 
a  public  speaker  may  acquire  considerable  fame  and 
honour.  The  high  degrees  of  excellence,  should  a 
man  aspire  to  them,  can  be  attained  only  by  those, 
whom  nature  has  endowed  with  great  al)ilities,  and 
who  attempt  perfection  itself.  For  this  object, 
long  and  laborious  exertion  must  l)e  made;  but  the 
very  effort  will  bring  its  adequate  reward  in  every 
stage,  and  will  carry  the  aspiring  mind,  farther 
and  farther,  beyond  the  dull  boundaries  of  medio- 
crity; and  place  him  within  the  regions  of  honour- 
able excellence.* 

A  correct  speaker,  does  not  make  a  movement  of 
a  limb  or  feature,  for  which  he  lias  not  a  reason. 
If  he  addresses  heaven,  he  looks  upward.  If  he 
speaks  to  his  fellow  creatures,  he  looks  round  upon 
them.  The  spirit  of  wdiat  he  says,  or  is  said  to 
him,  appears  in  his  look.  If  he  expresses  amaze- 
ment, or  would  excite  it,  he  lifts  up  his  hands 
and  eyes.  If  he  invites  to  virtue  and  happiness,  he 
spreads  his  arms,  and  looks  with  benevolence.  If 
he  threatens  the  vengeance  of  heaven  against  vice, 
he  bends  his  eye-brows  into  >\rath,  and  menace.-  with 
his  arm  and  countenance.  He  does  not  i-icodiej-sly 
saw  the  air  with  his  arm,  nor  stab  jumstif  with  his 
finger.  He  does  not  clap  his  riglit  hand  upon  his 
breast,  unless  he  has  occasion  to  sj)f.nk  of  ]iini:^elf,  or 
to  introduce  conscience,  or  something  sr.ntimental. 
He  does  not  start  back,  unless  he  wants  to  express 
horror  or  aversion.  He  does  not  come  forward,  but 
when  he  has  occasion  to  solicit.  He  does  not  raise 
or  lower  his  voice,  but  as  tin.  nature  of  tlie  senti- 
ment requires.  His  eyes  by  turn?,  according  to  the 
*  AustiiCs  C/dronomia. 


Oratorical  Delivery.  J33 

humour  of  the  matter  he  has  to  express,  sparkle  fu- 
ry ;  brighten  into  joy ;  glance  disdain ;  melt  into 
grief;  frown  disgust  and  hatred  ;  languish  into  love, 
or  glare  distraction. 

There  is  a  true  sublime  in  delivery,  as  in  the  oth- 
er imitative  arts,  i«  the  manner  tus  mcII  as  in  the 
matter  of  what  an  orator  delivers.  As  in  poetry, 
painting,  sculpture,  music,  and  the  other  elegances, 
the  true  sublime  consists  in  a  set  of  masterly,  large, 
and  nol)le  strokes  of  art,  superior  to  florid  little- 
ness ;  so  it  is  in  delivery.  The  accents  are  to  lie 
clear  and  articulate  ;  every  syllable  standing  off 
from  that  which  is  next  to  it,  so  tliat  they  may  b.e 
numbered  as  they  proceed.  The  inflections  of  the 
voice  are  to  be  distinctly  suited  to  tlie  matter,  and 
the  humour  or  passions  so  oppositely  applied,  that 
they  may  be  known  by  the  sound  of  the  voice,  al- 
though the  words  cannot  be  heard.  And  the  va- 
riations are  to  be  like  the  full  swelling  folds  of 
the  drapery  in  a  fine  picture  or  statue,  bold,  and 
free,  and  forcible.  In  a  con-umnrate  speaker,  w  hat- 
ever  thers  is  of  corporeal-  dignity  or  beauty,  the 
majesty  of  the  human  face  divine,  the  grace  of  ac- 
tion, the  piercing  glance,  gentle  languish,  or  fiery 
(lash  of  the  eyes  ;  \\  hatever  of  lively  passion,  or 
stiiking  emotion  of  mind,  whatever  of  fine  imagin- 
ation, of  wise  reflection,  or  irresistible  reasoning; 
\vhatcver  is  excellent  in  human  nature,  all  that  the 
hand  of  the  Creator  has  impressed  of  his  own  im- 
age, on  the  noblest  creature  with  which  we  are 
ac(juaintcd  ;  all  this  appears  in  the  consummate 
speaker  to  the  highest  advantage.  And  whosoever 
is  proof  against  such  a  display  of  all  that  is  noble 
in  human  nature,  must  have  neither  eye,  nor  ear, 
n")r  passion,  nor  imagination,  nor  taste,  nor  under- 
standing. 


3^  A  Dissertation  an 


PART.  II. 


A  PROPER  application  of  the  inHcctions  of  the 
voice,  constitutes  a  principal  part  of  that  beauty, 
variety,  and  harmony,  which  afiord  so  much  plea- 
sure in  good  reading  and  speaking. 

Besides  the  pauses  which  indicate  a  greater  or 
less  separation  of  the  parts  of  a  sentence,  and  a 
conclusion  of  the  whole,  the  peculiar  inflections  of 
voice  which  ought  to  accompany  these  pauses,  are 
equally  necessary  to  the  sense  of  the  period,  with 
the  pauses  themselves. — With  whatever  degree  of 
accuracy  we  may  pause  between  the  diiierent  parts 
of  a  sentence,  unless  we  accompany  each  pause 
\vith  that  inflection  necessary  to  the  sense,  we  will 
not  only  divest  the  composition  of  its  true  mean- 
ing, but  produce  a  meaning  totally  dilFerent  from 
that  intended  by  the  author ;  and  uniformly  de- 
stroy the  beauty,  variety,  and  harmony  of  the  pe- 
riod. 

All  vocal  sounds  may  be  divided  into  two  kinds, 
speaking  sounds  and  nnisical  sounds.  They  may 
be  thus  defined  practically. 

First,  musical  sounds ;  a  series  of  sounds  mov- 
ing distinctly  from  grave  to  acute,  or  from  acute 
to  grave,  either  gradually  or  by  intervals,  and  al- 
Avays  dwelling  for  a  perceptible  space  of  time,  on 
ont^  certain  tone. 

Scco)id,  speaking  sounds,  or  the  melody  of 
gpeech,  moves  rapidly  up  or  down  by  slides  where- 
in no  graduated  distinction  of  tones  or  semitones 
can  be  measured  by  the  ear  ;  nor  does  the  voice, 
in  our  language,  ever  dwell  distinctly,  for  any 
perceptible  space  of  time,  on  any  certain  or  uni- 
form lone  ;  except  when  the  mo7iotune  is  introduc- 
ed, which  approaches  nearer  to  common  mu  ic, 
than  to  any  other  sound  u^.d  in  speaking,  and  may 


Oratorical  Delivery.  ^5 

be  considered  as    more  allied  to    musical,  lliau  to 
speaking  sounds. 

The  inflexions  of  the  voice  are  totally  different 
from  either  the  varieties  of  modulation,  or  the 
tones  of  i)assion.  For  whether  we  pronounce  words 
in  a  high  or  low,  in  a  loud  or  a  soft  tone ;  whe- 
ther they  are  pronounced  suiftiy  or  slov.  ly,  forci- 
bly or  feebly,  with  the  tone  of  tiie  passion,  or  with- 
out it,  they  murt  necessarily  l)e  pronounced  ^vith 
the  voice  sliding  upwards  or  downwards,  with  these 
two  combined,  or  the  voice  must  go  into  a  mono- 
tone or  species  of  song.  These  two  inflexions  of 
voice  may,  therefore,  be  coujidcred  as  the  axis,  on 
which  the  beauty,  variety,  and  harmony  of  speak- 
ing, turn.* 

The  five  following  modifications  of  voice,  there- 
fore, may  be  considered  as  absolute  ;  since  they  are 
the  only  possible  ways  of  varying  it,  so  as  to  make 
one  mode  diiiferent  from  another. 

1st,  The  rising  inflexion  or  upward  turn  of  the 

voice,  marked  with  the   acute  accent,  thus  ('). 

This  inflexion  is  not  confined  to  any  particular 
pause,  though  most  generally  used  at  a  comma,  and 
when  a  question  is  asked  in  the  definite  form. 

2d,  The  filling  inflexion,  or  downward  turn  of 
the  voice,  marked  with  the  grave  accent,  thus  f ). 
— This  inflexion,  like  the  above,  is  not  confined  to 
any  particular  pause,  though  most  generally  used 
at  the  semic  Ion,  colon,  and  period  ;  and  when  a 
question  is  asked  in  the  indefinite  form. 

3d,  The  rising  circumflex,  which  begins  with  the 
falling,  and  terminates  with  the  rising  inflexion, 
marked  thus  ("). 

4th,  The  falling  circumflex,  which  begins  with 
the  riing,  and  terminates  with  the  falling  inflex- 
ion, marked  thus  (*). These  two  circumflexes  are 


•  Those  who  wish  lo  spe  a  more  minvite  investigation  of  this 
suh)ect  may  consult  Steele's  Pi'osodia  Ratioiialis,  and  Walker'?. 
Elements  of  Elocution. 

C, 


26  A  Di&srrtation  on 

generally  ti^ed  to  express  irony,  contempt,  reproaclt, 
s>neer,  and  raillery.  These  inllcxions  arc  made  up- 
on one  syllabic  :  as,  you,  you  ;  so,  f^6. 

5tli,  I'hc  monolono  is  the  continuation  of  the 
voice  upon  certain  syllables,  without  any  variation, 
and  may  be  marked  thus  (").  This  modification 
of  the  voice  may  ])e  used  ^^itll  AAonderfui  ciilct, 
arid  peculiar  beauty,  in  certain  solemn  and  sublime 
passages  in  poetry  ;  and  by  the  unconnuonntss  of 
its  use,  Mhen  the  subject  is  grand  and  tlie  lan- 
guage dignified,  it  may  be  used  in  prose,  where 
it  adds  greatly  to  that  variety,  with  >\hich  the  ear 
is  so  much  delighted. 


The  following  sentences  are  defined,  and  the 
manner  of  reading  them  pointed  out,  particulai'ly 
V,  ith  regard  to  the  inflexions. 

1st,  A  period  or  compact  sentence,  is  an  assem- 
blage of  such  Avords  or  members,  as  do  not  foim 
sense  independent  of  each  other  ;  or,  if  they  do,  the 
former  mo(Jify  the  latter,  or  inversely. — This  sen- 
tence must  be  read  Mith  the  rising  inflexion,  ac- 
companied wiih  the  longest  pause  vherc  the  sense 
begins  to  form. 

JEXAJiri.ES. 

To  be  ever  active  in  laudable  pursuits,  is  the  di? 
tinguishing  characteristic  of  a  man  of  merit. 

Ambition  is  the  first  and  great  cause  of  thase 
troubles,  that  tear  and  destroy  the  peace  of  the 
world. 

Ihe  difference  between  a  languid  and  vigorous 
exertion  of  our  fac'ulties,  forms  the  chief  point  of 
distinctiou  between  genius  and  duiness. 

Where  men  of  judgment  creep  and  feel  their  way, 
Tlie  positive  prcuounce  without  delay. 


Oratorical  Delivery.  St* 

I.ovc,  hope,  and  joy,  fair  pleaFure's  smiling  train, 
Hate,  fear,  and  grief,  the  family  of  pain'; 
These  mix'd  uith  art,  and  to  due  hounds  confin'd, 
Make  and  maintain  the  balance  of  the  mind. 


2d,  When  compact  sentences  have  their  princi 
pal  constructive  parts  connected  with  correspond- 
ing conjunctions,  the  rising  inOexion  and  the  long- 
est pause  are  required  at  the  end  of  the  first  con- 
structive member,  whether  the  corresponding  con 
junction  be  ejc pressed  or  understood = 

EXAMPLES. 

Both  conjunctions  expressed- 

As  we  must  remember,  that  the  riches,  grandeur, 
and  reputation  of  the  world,  are  not  the  greatest 
happiness  we  have  to  h.ope  f  r;  so  earthly  poverty, 
obscurity,  and  meanness,  are  not  the  greatest  evUs 
we  have  to  fear. 

As  you  are  not  to  fancy  yourself  a  learned  man, 
because  you  are  blessed  with  a  ready  v.  it ;  so  nti- 
ther  must  you  imagine,  that  large  and  laborious 
reading,  and  strong  memory,  can  denominate  you 
truly  wise. 

'  Though  the  pure  consciousness  of  worthy  actions, 
s^bstracted  from  the  views  of  popular  applaus°,  be, 
to-a  gr-nerous  mind,  an  ample  re\\ard;  yd,  the  de- 
sire of  distinction  wa^  undoubtedly  implant^'d  in 
our  namrc,  as  an  additional  incentive  to  exert  our- 
selves in  virtuous  excellence. 

Without  the  corresponding  conjunction. 

If  men  of  eminence  are  exposed  to  censure  on 
the  one  hand,  they  are  as  nnich  liable  to  flattery  on. 
the  other. 


"SS  A  Dissertation  on 

Would  a  vain  man  consult  his  own  heart,  he 
would  find,  that  if  others  knew  his  weakness  as  he 
hiiUFelf  does,  he  would  not  have  the  hupudence  to 
expect  the  pul)lic  esteem. 

As  \vords  ^^■hich  are  opposed  to  one  another  arc 
always  emphatic,  and  as  emphasis  controls  all  in- 
ilcxion,  it  causes  exceptions  to  almost  all  the  gene- 
ral rules. 

If  we  have  no  regard  for  religion  in  youth,  we 
ought  to  have  some  for  it  in  age. 

If  we  have  no  regard  for  our  own'  character,  we 
ought  to  have  some  regard  foa:  the  character  of 
others. 


3d,  When  the  first  part  of  a  sentence  forms  per- 
fect sense,  but  is  modified,  or  determined  in  its 
meaning  by  the  latter,  it  is  called  an  inverted  peri- 
od   This  sentence  is  to  be   read  with  the  rising 

inflexion,  accomi>anied  with  the  longest  pause,  at 
the  clause  immediately  preceding  the  modifying 
member. 

EXAMPLES. 

Persons  of  good  taste  expect  to  be  pleas'ed,  at 
the  same  time  they  are  informed. 

Man,  in  his  highest  earthly  glory,  is  ])ut  a  reed 
floating  on  the  stream  of  ti'me,  and  forced  to  follow 
every  new  direction  of  the  current. 

A  temperate  spirit,  and  moderate  expectations, 
are  the  best  safe-guard  of  the  niind,  in  this  uncet' 
tain  and  changeable  state. 


4th,  A  sentence,  forming  perfect  sense,  with  an 
additional  member,  ^hich  does  not  aftect  what  has 
gone  fcefore,  is  a  loose  period.     This  sentence  is  to 


Jdratorical  Delivery.  S9 

be  read  with  the  falling  InQexion  at  the  comple- 
tion of  the  sense  :  i.  c.  immediately  preceding  the 
)o9se  member. 

EXAMPLES. 

Moderate  and  simple  pleasures  relish  h%h  wiui 
the  tenVperate :  in  the  midst  of  his  studied  refine- 
ments, the  voluptuary  languishes. 

The  happiness  of  every  man  depefids  more  upon 
the  state  of  his  own  mind,  than  upon  any  one  ex- 
ternal circumstance :  nay,  more  than  upon  all  ex- 
ternal things  put  together. 

Tliat  gentleness  which  is  tlie  characteristic  of  a 
good  man,  has,  like  every  other  virtue,  its  seat  in 
the  heart;  and,  let  jiie  add,  nothing  except  what 
flows  from  tlie  heart,  can  render  even  external  maj>. 
ners  truly  pleasing. 


5th,  When  a  sentence  is  constructed  in  such  a 
manner,  as  to  have  words  or  clauses  corresponding  to 
one  another,  so  as  to  form  an  antithesis ;  the  oppo- 
site parts  must  always  have  opposite  inflexions. 

EXArilPLES. 

We  take  less  pains  to  he  happy,  tlian  to  appear  so 
We  judge  of  men,  not    from  the  mei^t  which 
distinguishes  them,  but  from  the  in'terest  which  go- 
verns us. 

As  it  is  the  characteristic  of  great  wits  to  say 
much  in  few  words,  so  small  ■wits,  seem  to  have  the 
gift  of  speaking  much  and  saying  little. 


6th,  The  last  member  but  one  of  a  sentence,  call- 
ed the  penultimate,  except  when  aflected  by  empha- 
sis, must  have  the  rising  inflexion. 
C2 


80  A  Dissertation  on 

EXA-AIPLES. 

lie  ^vho  pretends  to  great  sensibility  towards  uicii, 
and  yet  has  no  feeling  for  the  high  ohjecfs  of  re- 
ligion, no  heart  to  admire  and  adore  the  great  Fa- 
ther of  the  universe,  lias  reason  to  distrust  the  truth 
and  deUcacy  of  his  sensibility. 

If  they  do  not  acquiesce  in  liis  judgment,  wliicli, 
I  tliink,  never  happened  above  once  or  twice  at  most, 
Ihey  appeal  to  me. 


7i\  Interrogative  sentences  arc  of  two  kinds,  de- 
finite and  indefinite.  When  the  question  is  formed 
witliout  an  interrogative  word,  it  is  called  definite. — - 
This  question  must  be  read  with  the  rising  inflexion. 

EXABirLES. 

Would  it  not  employ  a  beau  prettily  enough,  if, 
instead  of  eternally  playing  wilh  his  snuii-box,  he 
.spent  some  part  of  his  time  in  making  one  ? 

Is  it  not  Avonderful,  that  the  love  of  the  parent 
among  J>rute  animals  should  be  so  violent  while  it 
lasts,  and  that  it  should  last  no  longer,  than  is  ne- 
(•essary  for  the  preservation  of  the  young  ? 

Suppose  a  youth  to  have  no  prospect  either  of  sit- 
ting in  parliament,  of  pleading  at  the  bar,  appear- 
ing upon  the  stage,  or  in  the  pulpit ;  does  it  fol- 
low, that  he  need  bestow  no  pains  in  learning  to 
speak  properly  his  native  lan'guage  ?  Will  he  never 
"have  occasion  to  read  in  a  company  of  his  friends, 
a  copy  of  verses,  a  passage  of  a  book  or  news'paper  ? 

Was  he  not  a  great  and  distinguished  orator,  who 
confounded  the  Jews  at  Damas'cus  ?  who  made  a 
prince,  before  whom  he  stood  to  be  judged,  confess, 
that  he  had  almost  persuaded  him  to  become  a  con- 
vert to  a  religion  every  where  spoken'  agamst  ?  who 


Oratorical  Dclivcri/.  SI 

threw  another  into  a  fit  of  trembling,  as  he  sat  upon 
his  judg'juent  seat  ?  who  made  a  defence  before  the 
learned  com't  of  Areopagus,  vhich  gained  him  for  a 
convert,  a  member  of  tlie  court  itseli'?  who  struck 
a  whole  people  ^vith  such  admiration,  that  they  took 
Jiim  for  the  god  of  eloquence?  and  who  gained  a 
place  among  Longinus's  list  of  famous  oratoi's  ? 


8(h,  When  the  question  is  made  with  an  interro- 
gative word,  it  is  called  indefinite,  and  must  be  read 
TV  ith  the  falling  inflexion,  like  a  declarative  sentence, 
')ut  not  so  low. 

EXAMPLES. 

Who  can  deny,  but  that  flattery  is  a  sort  of  bad 
money,  to  \\  hich  our  vanity  gives  cur'rency  ? 

How  many  have  had  reason  to  be  thankful,  for  being 
disappointed  in  designs  which  they  earnestly  pursued, 
but  Avhich,  if  successfully  accomplished^  they  have  af- 
terwards seen,  would  have  occasioned  their  ruin  ? 

On  whom  does  time  hang  so  heavily,  as  on  the 
slothful  and  lazy  ?  to  whom  are  the  hours  so  lin'ger- 
ing  ?  who  are  so  often  devoured  with  spleen,  and 
obliged  to  fly  to  every  expedient,  which  can  help 
them  to  get  rid  of  themselvci-^  ? 

Who  is  here  so  base  that  would  be  a  bondman*  ?  if 
any,  speak  ;  for  him  have  I  oflfended.  Who  is  here  so 
rude,  that  would  not  be  a  Ron\Mn  ?  if  any,  speak  ;  for 
him  have  I  oflended.  Who  is  here  so  vile,  that  will  not 
love  his  coun^try  ?  if  any,  speak ;  for  him  have  I  of- 
fended. 

'Tisdone!  dread  winter  spreads  his  latest  glooa^s. 
And  reigns  tremendous  o'er  the  conquer'd  year. 
How  dead  the  vegetable  kingdom  lies ! 
How  dumb  the  tuneful !     Honor  w  ide  extends 
His  desolate  domain.     Behold,  fond  man  ! 
See  here  thy  pictur'd  life  :  pass  some  few  yr>ars. 
Thy  flowering  spring,  thy  summer's  ardent  strength^ 


32  J  Dissertation  on 

Thy  sober  autumn  fading  into  age, 

And  pale  concluding  winter  conies  at  last, 

And  -huts  tlie  scene.     Ah!  whither  now  are  fled, 

Those  dreams  of  greatness?  those  unsolid  hopes 

Of  happiness  ?  those  longings  after  fame  ? 

Those  restless  cares  ?  those  busy  bustling  days  ? 

Those  gay  spent,festive  nights?  those  veering  thoughts 

l>ost  between  good  and  ill,  that  shar'd  thy  life  ? 

All  now  are  lost!     Virtue  sole  survives, 

Immortal  never-failing  friend  of  man, 

His  guide  to  happhiess  on  high. 

F^xceptioiis  on  account  of  Emphasis,  which  affect  both 
the  Dcjhiite  and  Indefinite  question. 

Simply,  Why  did  you  not  stud'y  ?  with  emphasis, 
M'^hif'  did  you  not  stud'^y  ?  simply,  When  do  you  go 
to  college ?  with  emphasis,  Wh-n  do  you  go  to  coi*- 
iege  ?  simply.  Have  you  prepared  your  task'  ?  w  ith 
emphasis,  Have  you  preparetl  your  tasl>?  simply, 
Are  you  going  to  col'lege  ?  with  emphasis,  Are  you 
going  to  coHege  ? 

9th,  Exclamation  is  a  racirk  used  by  grammarians, 
to  point  out,  tliat  some  passion  or  emotion  of  the 
mind  is  contained  in  the  words  to  which  it  is  annex- 
ed Great  care  should  be  taken  by  readers  to  ascer- 
tain w  hen  this  note  is  properly  applied.  It  is  often 
mistaken  by  printers,  for  the  note  of  interrogation, 
and  vice  versa  ;  and  also  by  bad  readers,  fi'om  their 
not  perceiving  the  import  of  the  author. — The  man- 
ner of  reading  it ;  if  Ih';  exclamation  point  is  piaced 
after  a  mt  niber  that  would  have  the  rising  inflexioa 
in  another  sentence,  it  ought  to  have  the,  rising  in 
this  ;  if  after  a  member  that  w  ould  have  the  falling 
inflexion,  the  exclamation  ought  to  have  the  same. 
But  this  rule  is  very  general. 

EXAMPLES. 

How  many  clear  marks  of  benevolent  intention  ap- 
pear every  where  around  us !     What  a  proiu-iou  of 


Oratorical  Delivery.  93 

beauty  and  ornament  is  poured  forth  on  the  face  of 
nature.'  What  a  magnificent  spectacle  presented  to 
the  view  of  man!  What  supply  contrived  for  his 
wants  ?  What  a  variety  of  ol)jec{s  set  before  him, 
to  gratify  his  senses,  to  employ  his  understanding,  to 
entertain  his  imagination,  to  cheer  and  gladden  his 
heart  I 


-O  luxury 


Bane  of  elated  life,  of  affluent  stales. 

What  dreary  change,  what  ruin  is  not  thine  ! 

How  doth  thy  bowl  intoxicate  the  mind ! 

To  the  soft  entrance  of  thy  rosy  cave. 

How  dost  thou  lure  the  fortunate  and  great ! 

Dreadful  attraction ! 

10th,  When  a  member  is  inserted  into  another,  and 
neither  affects  the  construction  of  the  sentence,  nor 
is  in  any  degree  necessary  to  the  sense,  it  is  called  a 
parenthesis. — In  reading  it,  the  voice  ought  to  be  low- 
ered, the  words  pronounced  somewhat  quicker  than 
the  other  parts  of  the  sentence,  and  with  the  same 
pause  and  inflexion  which  is  given  to  the  clause  im- 
mediately preceding. 

l3XAMri,ES. 

Though  religion  removes  not  all  the  evils  of  life, 
though  it  promises  no  contiiuuncv'  of  uudL''ujl>f  d 
prospei'ity,  (whicli,  indeed,  it  were  not  iaiutaiy  for 
man  always  to  enjoy,;  yet,  if  it  mitigates  the  evils 
which  necessarily  belong  io  oue  ttate,  it  may  juFtly 
be  said  to  give  "  rest  to  them  who  lab<jur  ^.nd  are 
heavy  laden." 

Then  went  the  captain  with  the  officers  and  bi  ought 
thein  without  v  ol.nce  ;  (for  they  feared  the  people, 
lea^t  they  sh'uid  be  stoiA  d  ;)  and"  when  th(y  had 
brought  them,  they  set  them  before  ih  council.  Acts 
V.  26,  21, 


dA  ^  DisscrtcUion  oh 

Young  master  Ma?  alive  last  whilsuritide,  said  the 
coachman. ^\  hilsuiitide!  alas*  J  cried  Trim*,  (ex- 
tending his  lii^ht  unn,  and  falling  instantly  into  the 
same  attitud*^  in  wJiich  he  read  the  ser^iion) — wliat  is 
Whitsuntide,  Jon'athan,  (for  tiiat  was  the  coacliman's 
name,)  or  shrovclide,  or  any  tide  or  time  to  tiiis  ? 
Are  we  not  here  now',  continued  the  coi'poral,  (strik- 
ing the  end  of  his  stick  perpendicularly  upon  the 
floor,  so  as  to  give  an  idea  of  health  and  stahii'ity,) 
and  are  we  not',  (dropping  his  hat  upon  the  ground',) 
gone  in  a  nioiuent  ? 

EMPHASIS. 

1  Ith,  If  in  every  assemblage  of  objects,  some  ap- 
pear more  worthy  of  notice  than  others;  if  in  every 
assemblage  of  ideas,  which  are  pictures  of  these  ob- 
jects, the  same  diil'erence  prevail :  it,  consequently, 
must  follow,  that  in  every  assemblage  of  words  which 
are  pictures  of  these  ideas,  the  same  degrees  of  impor- 
tance will  necessarily  be  found.  The  art  of  speaking, 
then,  must  principally  consist  in  arranging  each  word 
into  its  proper  class  of  importance,  and  then  giviiig  it 
a  suitable  d  livery. — There  are  four  obvious  distinc- 
tions between  the  sound  of  words  with  respect  to 
f  nxc.  First,  The  force  necessary  for  the  least  impor- 
tant words,  such  as  conjunctions,  particles,  &c.  which 
may  be  called  feeble  or  unaccf;nted. — Second,  'I'hc 
force  necessary  for  substantives,  verbs,  &c.  wliicli  may 
be  called  accntid  — Third,  That  force  wliich  i^  u~cd 
f  >:■  (lic1inii,uishiiig  some  words  from  others,  conjmon- 
ly  Cilh'd  emphasis  oi  force :  but  only,  when  properly 
aj)pli."d,  enforces,  graces,  and  enlivens,  without  in  any 
degree,  ajfrihig  or  Jixiii^  the  sense  of  any  passage  — 
Fourth,  The  force  ncc  'ssary  for  emphasis  of  sense. — 
As  oppositi  >n  is  tli'-  found^ition  of  all  emphasis  of 
sense,  whatever  words  are  contrasted  with,  contradis- 
tin'j[uish'^d  from,  or  set  in  oppositim  to,  on.-.-  anoth  r, 
they  are  always  emphatic.     Hence,  whenever  there 


(Oratorical  Delivery.  SB 

is  antithesis  in  the  gcnse,  whether  words  or  clauses, 
there  ought  to  be  emphasis  in  the  pronunciation. 

If  no  emphasis  he  placed  on  words,  not  only  is  dis- 
cnurse rendered  heavy  and  Jifcless,  but  tlie  meaning 
left  ambiguous.  If  the  emphasis  be  priced  wrong', 
A\e  pervert  and  confound  tJie  meaning  wholly.  To 
lay  the  emphasis,  then,  with  exact  propriety,  is  a  con- 
stant  exercise  of  good  sense  and  attention.  It  is  one 
of  the  most  decisive  trials  of  a  true  and  just  taste  ; 
and  must  arise  from  feeling  dlicately  ourselves,  and 
from  judging  accurately  of  Mhat  is  fittest  to  strike 
the  feelings  of  others. 

The  following  examples  illustrate  the  nature  and 
use  of  emphasis  of  force  and  emphasis  of  sense;  or, 
as  they  are  sometimes  called,  inferior  and  superior 
emphasis. 

EMPHASIS  OF  FORCE. 

Many  persons  mistake  the  love  for  the  practice  of 
virtue. 

Shall  I  reward  his  services  M'iih  false/iood!  shall  I 
forget  /lim  who  cannot  forget  me  / 

If  his  principles  are  /nlsr,  no  apology  from  hiynselj 
can  make  them  right  ;  if  founded  in  truth,  no  censure 
from  others  can  make  them  wrons^. 

Providence  never  intended,  that  any  state  here 
should  be  either  completcli/  happy,  or  entirely  mise 
raljle. 

No  station  is  so  high,  no  power  so  great,  no  charac- 
ter so  vnhlemishcd,  as  to  exempt  men  from  being  at- 
tacked with  rashnes';,  malice,  or  envy. 

The  external  misfortunes  of  lite,  disappointmf^nts, 
p'^verty,  and  sickness,  are  notliing  in  coinparison  of 
those  inward  distresses  of  mind,  occasioned  by  folly, 
by  passion,  and  by  guilt. 

What  men  could  do, 

Is  doTio  already ;  heaven  and  earth  will  witness, 
That,  (/'i^o;/z6' .Musx/a//,  we  are  innocent. 

TJinugh  deep,  yet  clear  ;  though  gentle,  yet  not  dull : 
Strong,  without  rage ;  without  o^erJio>ving,fulL 


3§  A  Dissertation  on 

Hope,  of  all  passions,  most  fxfriends  us  here  ; 
J*assioHS  oi prouder  name  befriend  us  less. 
Toy  has  her  tears,  and  transport  has  her  death. 
Hope,  like  a  cordial,  innocent  though  strongs 
IMan's  heart  at  once  inspirits  and  serenes. 


EMPHASIS  OF  SENSE, 

.  In  the  following  examples,  both  parts  of  the  anti- 
thesis are  expressed ;  in  such  sentences,  the  least  de- 
cree of  force  proper  for  emphasis  cf  sense  is  necessary. 
Tlie  emphatic  words,  houever,  are  far  from  being 
feebly  pronounced ;  they  ought  to  have  more  stress 
th:in  any  other  words  m  the  sentence:  ev  :n  superior 
to  those  that  require  the  emphasis  of  force,  if  any 
such  occur  in  the  sentence. 

As  it  is  the  chancter  of  gre  it  wits  to  say  much  in 
few  words ;  so  sralL  Avits  seem  to  have  the  gift  of 
fcpeakin.?  nmch,  and  sa5-ing  little. 

"VVe  judge  'f  m'^n,  n  >t  from  tlie  meruit  which  di.4in- 
gul  hes  ih.m,  but  from  the  in  tercst  which  governs  us. 

The  pieaitires  of  the  imagination  are  n'>t  so  gross  as 
those  of  sen  se,  nor  so  refined  as  those  of  the  under- 
stan^dhr:. 

That  may  generally  be  suspected  to  be  righ^t,  which 
requires  many  words  to  prove  it  wrSig ;  and  that 
nrr'.ng,  which  cannot,  witlnut  much  labour,  appear 
to  he  ri<^/U'. 

AVhc-n  a  Persian  soldier  was  reviling  Alrxander 
the  Great,  his  officer  reprimanded,  saying,  you  were 
paid  to  %/( t  agamst  Alexander,  and  nut  to  rail"  at 
him. 

T!ie  hours  cf  a  wise  man  are  lengthenrd  by  his 
i'Uas,  as  tlio:;e  of  a  fool  are  by  his  pass^ions ;  the  time 
of  the  one  is  long,  becau"=;e  h;  does  not  i-now  ^^hat  to 
do  with  it;  so  is  that  of  the  other,  because  he  distin- 
guishes every  moment  of  it  with  useful  ond  amusing 
thoughts:  or,  in  other  words,  because  the  one  Is  al 


Oratorical  Deliuert/.  Sf 

nays  tsishing  it  arvay,  and  the  other  always  enjoif- 
ing  it. 

TIieiK;  seems  to  be  some  minds  suited  to  great,  and 
somc  to  ]\ttle  employments;  some  formed  to  soar 
afoft,  and  others  to  grovel  on  the  ground,  and  confine 
iheir  regard  to  a  narrow  sphere.  Of  these,  the  one  is 
n  danger  of  becoming  useless  by  a  daring  negligence, 
the  other  by  a  scrupulous  solicitude :  the  one  collects 
many  ideas,  but  confused  and  indistinct ;  the  other  is 
buried  in  minute  accuracy,  but  Avithout  compass,  and 
vithout  dignity. 

Let  old  TimotJieus  yield  the  prize. 
Or  both'  divide  the  crown  ; 
He  rais'd  a  mor^tal  to  the  sJcies, 
iShe  drew  an  angel  doivn'. 

The  following  sentences  afford  examples  where  the 
emphasis  changes  the  accent  of  the  word. 

lie  shall  //jcrease,  but  I  shall  rf<?crease. 

There  is  a  difference  between  giving  and/orgiving. 

In  this  species  of  composition,  plausihiWiy  is  more 
essential  than prob^h'iiiij. 

He  who  is  good  before  envisibie  witnesses,  is  emi- 
nently so  before  the  c«ible. 

Neither  jfMstice  nor  ?/yustice  has  any  thing  to  do 
with  the  i)resent  question. 

Did  he  do  it  ooiuntarily  er  zVvoluntarily  ?  He  did 
it  i«luntarily,  not  /w'voluntarily. 


loth,  The  following  sentences  exemplify  the  use  of 
both  the  Circumflex  inOexions  and  the  Monotone. 

But  it  is  foolirh  in  us  to  compare  Drusus  Africa- 
nus  and  ourselves  with  CiSdius :  all  our  other  cala- 
mities Avere  tolerable  ;  bat  r.o  one  can  patiently  bear 
tiie  death  of  CKdius. 

D 


33  yi  Dhscrtatiou  <- < 

I  kueM'  \\'lien  seven  juflices  could  not  take  up  a 
quarrel,  Imt  when  the  parties  uerc  met  thejnselvep, 
one  of  them  thouglit  but  of  an  If;  as  if  you  said  su, 
then  I  said  &6 :  O  ho  J  did  you  si  ?  So  tliey  shook 
hands  and  swore  brothers. 

^uecn.  Hamlet,  thou  hast  thy  father  mucli  oftcnded. 
Hamlet.  Mother,  7/0 w  have  my  father  much  offended- 

My  sentence  is  for  op'^n  war :  oi  niU's^ 
More  unexpert  I  boast  not :  them,  let  those 
Contrive  >vlio  needy  or  m  hen  they  iiecdy  not  n6;v. 


The  humble  Norval 


Is  of  a  race,  who  strive  not  but  ^^  ith  deeds. 
Did  I  not  fear  io  freeze  thy  shallow  valour. 
And  make  thee  sink  too  soon  beneath  my  sword, 
I'd  tell  thee — what  thou  art,  I  know  thee  well. 


MONOTONE. 


But  what  then^ !  Is  it  come  to  this^  ?  Shall  a» 
inferior  magistrate,  a  governor,  who  holds  his  whole 
power  of  the  Roman  people,  in  a  Roman  province, 
within  sight  of  Italy,  bind,  sccdrge,  t5fture  with  red 
hot  plates  of  iron,  and  at  last  put  to  the  infamous 
death  of  the  cross,  a  Roman  citizen  ? 

High  on  a  throne  of  royal  state,  which  far 
Outshone  the  wealth  of  Ormus  or  of  Inde, 
Or  wl  ere  the  gorgeous  Ea  t  with  'ichest  land 
Showers  on  her  kliigs  bar!  adc  ptarl  and  gold, 
Satan^  exalted  at. 

Hence !  loath'd  Melancholy, 

Of  Cerberus,  and  blackest  Midnight  born, 
In  Stygian  cave  forlorn, 

^jWongst  horrid  shapes,  and  shrieks,  and  sights  un- 
holy, 


Oratorical  Ddivcry.  3^ 

iind  out  sonic  uncouth  cell, 

Where  ))rooding  darkness  spreads  his  jealous  wings, 
And  the  night  raven  sings ; 

Thet-e  under  ebon  shades  and  low-brow'd  rocks, 
As  ragged  as  thy  locks. 

In  dark  Cinuuerian  desert  ever  dwell. 


16(h,  Wlien  a  sentence  is  so  constructed  as  io  have 
an  enumeration  of  particulars,  each  particular  rising' 
gradually  a]x)ve  the  last  in  sense,  it  is  a  Climax  or 
Gradation.  This  figure  is  most  perfect,  when  the  last 
idea  in  the  former  member  becomes  the  first  in  the  lat- 
ter.— As  every  Climax  is  a  scries,  it  mut-t  be  pronounc- 
ed with  an  increasing  swell  and  elevation  of  voice. 

Tlie  Minor  longs  to  be  of  aj.e,  then  to  be  a  man  of 
bus'iness,  then  to  make  up  an  estate,  then  to  arrive  at 
honours,  then  to  retire. 

I  tell  you,  though  you,  though  all  the  world,  though 
an  angel  from  heav^en,  were  to  affirm  the  truth  of  it, 
I  could  not  believe  it. 

Consult  your  whole  nature:  consider  yourselves, 
not  only  as  sensitive,  but  as  rational  beings  ;  not  on- 
ly as  ratioDal,  but  social ;  not  only  as  social,  but  im- 
mortal. 

The  descriptive  part  of  this  allegory  is  likewise 
very  strong,  and  full  of  sublime  ideas:  the  figure  of 
Death,  tlie  regal  crown  upon  his  head,  his  menace  of 
Satan,  his  advancing  to  the  comMiat,  the  outcry  at  his 
birth,  are  circumstances  too  noble  to  be  passed  over 
in  silence,  and  extremely  suitable  to  this  king  of  ter- 
rors. 

Whom  lie  did  foreknow,  he  also  did  predestinate 
and  whom  he  did  predestinate,  them  he  also  called 
and  whom  he  called,  them  he  also  justified ;  and 
whom  lie  justified,  them  he  also  glorified. 

For  I  am  persuaded,  that  neither  dtath,  nor  life; 
nor  angels,  nor  principalities,  nor  powers,  nor  things 
pres'ent,  nor  things  to  come. J  nor  height,  nor  depth; 


^0  A  Dissertation  oti 

oflr  any  otlier  crcdlnrc,  shall  be  a])Ic  to  separate  m 
from  the  love  of  C)6d,  uhich  is  iii  CJirist  Jesus  oui 
I.ord. 

There  is  ne  enjoyment  of  properly  without  govern- 
jiient,  no govcrnm'nt  withoiil  a  uiagistrate  :  no  magis- 
trate without  oleciience:  and  no  olicdience,  where 
every  one  acts  as  he  pleases. 

Wjiat  is  there  remaining  of  liberty,  if  whatever  is 
their  pleasure,  it  is  lawful  for  them  to  do :  if  what  i» 
lawful  for  them  to  do,  they  dare  do  ;  if  Avhat  they 
dare  do,  they  really  execute,  and  if  what  they  exe- 
cute, is  no  way  offensive  to  you. 

If  this  guiltless  infant  had  been  murdered  by  its 
own  nurse,  what  punisliment  would  not  the  mother 
have  demanded  !  a\  ith  what  cries  and  exclamations 
would  she  liave  stunned  our  ears !  ^Vhat  shall  we  say,= 
then,  when  a  woman  guilty  of  homicide — a  mother 
of  the  murder  of  her  own  child,  comprises  so  many 
misdeeds  in  one  single  crLiBe  ? — a  crime  in  its  own 
nature  detestable  ;  in  a  woman,  prodigious ;  in  a 
mother  incredible : — and  perpetrated  against  one 
whose  age  cal^d  for  compassion,  whose  near  relation 
claimed  affection,  and  whose  innocence  deserved  the 
highest  favour  ? 

'lliere  are  in  heaven,  the  redeemed  of  all  people, 
nations,  and  languages :  there  are  the  heroes  of  reli- 
gion, who,  for  having  turned  many  to  rigliteousness, 
shine  bright  for  ever  as  tlie  stars  in  the  firmament; 
there  are  the  angels  jwwerful  in  strength:  there  are 
the  seraphim  burning  Avith  love  :  there  are  tlie  thou- 
sand thousands  that  minister  to  the  Eternal ;  and  the 
ten  thousand  times  ten  tjiousand  that  stand  before  hi? 
tlirone. 

'Tis  Rome  demands  our  tears : 

The  mistress  of  the  world,  the  seat  of  empire! 
The  nurse  of  heroes,  the  delight  of  gods ! 
That  humbl'd  the  }7toud  tyrants  of  the  earth, 
And  set  the  nations  free — Rome  is  no  more. 
Oh  liberty  !    ^Oh  virtue  '     Oh  my  country  I 


'    f. 

p'  ^  Oratorical  Delivers.  4:1 

Base  men,  use  tliem  to  so  base  eiTect ; 
But  truer  stars  did  govern  Proteus'  birth  ; 
His  words  are  bonds,  his  oaths  are  oracles, 
His  love  sincere,  his  thoughts  immaculate, 
His  tears  pure  messengers  sent  from  his  heart, 
His  heart  as  far  from  fraud  as  heaven  from  earth. 

O  now  forever 


Farewell  the  tranquil  mind !     Farewell  content  \ 
Farewell  the  plumed  troops,  and  the  big  war 
That  make  ambition  virtue  !     Oh  farewell ! 
Farewell  the  neighing  steed,  and  the  shrill  trum 
The  spirit-stirring  dium,  the  ear-piercing  fife, 
The  royal  banner  :  and  all  quality, 
Pride,  pomp,  and  circumstance  of  glorious  war  • 
And  oh,  ye  immortal  engines,  whose  rude  throats 
The  iu\mortal  Jove's  dread  clamours  counterfeits. 
Farewell !     Othello's  occupation's  gone  I 


irth.  Pauses  and  Breaks. The    pauses   meant 

liere,  are  those  w  hich  are  made  in  reading  or  speak- 
ing passages,,  where  deep  reflection  is  necessary.  No 
exact  time  can  be  fixt  for  them ;  they  ought  to  be 
regulated  in  duration  according  to  the  importance  of 
the  subject.  In  most  cases,  the  voice  should  have 
the  tone  of  continuance,  indicating,  that  the  speaker's 
mind  is  deeply  engaged  in  thought  and  contempla- 
tion :  this  constitutes  the  difference  between  a  Pause 
and  a  Break ;  the  former  is  a  gradual  stop,  the  lat- 
ter, a  sudden  check  of  expression. 

Pauses  of  tlie  first  kind  occur  in  the  following  lines 
of  Shakspeare ;  and  as  the  subject  is  of  great  weight 
and  imi^ortance,  should  be  of  considerable  duration, 
perhaps  while  one  could  number  six,  or  a  period  and 
a  half  to  each. 

It  must  be  by  his  death  ,  and  for  my  part 
I  know  no  personal  cause  to  spurn  at  liira, 
D  2 


412  .'I  Dissertation  6*i 

But  for  the  general — He  would  be  crown'd — 
How  that  might  change  his  nature — there's  tlie  quei?- 

tion. 
It  is  the  briglit  day  that  brings  forth  the  adder  ; 
And  that  craves  wary  wallcing  :  crown  him — that — 
And  then  I  grant  we  put  a  sting  in  him, 
Which  at  his  will  he  may  do  danger  \vith, 

To  be — or  not  to  be — tliat  is  the  question  : 

Whether  'lis  noI)kr  in  tlie  mind  to  pu/Ter 

Tlie  stings  and  arrows  of  outrageous  fortune, 

Or  to  take  arms  against  a  sea  of  troubles, 

And  by  opposing  end  them. — To  die — to  sleep — 

No  more  ; — and  by  a  sleep  to  say  we  end 

The  heart-ach,  and  tlie  thousand  natural  shocks 

That  flesh  is  Iieir  to — 'tis  a  consummation 

-Devoutlj'  to  be  wish'd. — To  die — to  sleep — 

To  sleep,  perchance  to  dream : — Ay,  there's  the  rub  :•: 

For  in  tliat  sleep  of  deatii  u  hat  dreams  may  come, 

When  we  have  shuflled  oiltliis  mortal  coil 

Must  give  us  pause. — 

Pauses  of  confusion  are  shorter  than  those  of  reflec- 
tiou,  and  should  be  filled  up  with  hesitative  panling 
draughts  of  l>reath,  while  every  succeeding  word  or 
sentence  varies  in  tone  of  expression  from  the  former. 

Yes :  'tis  Emelia — by  and  by — site's  dead- 
'Tis  like  she  comes  to  speak  of  Cassio's  death- 
The  noise  was  high — Ha !  no  more  moving  ? — 
Still  as  the  grave — sliall  she  come  in  ? — wert  good  ? 
I  think  she  stirs  again — no — what's  best  ? — 

Breaks  are  only  pauses  of  a  different  nature^  more 
iibrupt  and  sudden,  as  when  a  passage  cuts  short  be- 
fore the  meaning  is  fully  explained  ;  these  most  fre- 
quently occur  in  violent  grief,  and  impetuous  rage; 
and  tlie  tone  of  voice  alters  as  the  passion  rises  or 
falls. 


Oratorical  Dflwcrr/.  4-'? 

i  pr'ylhce,  daughter,  do  not  make  me  mad  ! — ■ 
I  >\  ill  not  trouble  thee,  my  child — farewell. — 
We'll  meet  no  more — no  more  see  one  another  ; — 
Let  shame  come  Vvhen  it  will,  I  do  not  call  it  ;— 
I  do  not  bid  the  thunder-bearer  strike, 
Nor  tell  tales  of  thee  to  avenging-  heaven  : 
Mend  when  thou  canst — be  better  at  thy  leisure ; — • 
I  can  be  patient — I  can  stay  with  Regan. — 

Darkness  and  demons ' — 


Saddle  my  horses — call  my  train  together  ; — 

Degenerate  viper—  I'll  not  stay  with  thee ! 

I  yet  have  left  a  daughter — Serpent !  monster  ! 

Lessen  my  train,  and  call  them  riotous ! 

AH  men  approved — of  clioice  and  rarest  parts, 

That  each  particular  of  duty  know. — 

Dost  tliou  understand  me,  man  ? 

The  king  would  speak  vith  Cornwall ;  the  dear  fa 
ther 

Would  Av  ith  his  daughter  speak : — Comniand  lier  ser- 
vice. 

Are  they  informal  of  this  ? — My  breath  and  blood — - 

No — but  not  yet,  maj'  be  he  is  not  well. — 


PART  Ilf. 


IIODTJLATIOH  AND  MANAGEMENT  OF  THE  VOICE. 

The  voice  is  the  organ  of  eloquence,  and  has  the 
entire  dominiou  over  one  sense.  All  that  language 
and  tones  can  efi'ect  to  influence  the  understanding 
and  to  win  the  aiTections  depends  on  the  power  of 
the  voice  addressed  to  the  ear.  To  understand,  and 
be  able  to  manage  the  voice,  must  be  a  matter,  there- 
fore, of  the  highest  importance  to  the  public  speaker. 
The  ancient  orators,  sensible  of  this,  bestowed  un- 
common pains,  and  used  every  ciTort  to  improve  the 


4ri 


-•/  Disscrlaiiun  on 


qualities  of  the  voice,  and  exerted  all  their  art  in  the 
management  of  it. 

The  voice,  as  to  its  nature,  may  be  divided  aito 
quantity  and  quality. 

OUANIITV  OF  THE  VOICE. 


Pcrfectiofis. 
The  body  or  volume. 
The  compass. 
The  soundness  and  dura- 
bility. 


Imperfections. 
Smaliness,  feebleness. 
The  narrow  scale. 
Weakness,  liable  to  fail 
by  exertion. 


QUALITY  OF  THE  VOICE. 


Clearness. 

Sweetness. 

Evenness; 

Variety. 

Flexibility. 


Indistinctness. 
Harshness. 
Broken,  cracked. 
Monotony. 
Rigidity. 


The  modulation  of  the  voice  is  the  proper  manage- 
ment of  its  tones,  so  as  to  produce  grateful  melodies 
to  the  ear.  Upon  the  modulation  of  the  voice,  de- 
pends that  variety  w  liich  is  so  pleasing,  and  so  neces- 
sary to  refi-esh  and  relieve  the  organs  of  the  speaker, 
and  the  ears  of  the  audience,  in  a  long  oration.  The 
opposite  fault  is  monotony,  which  becomes  at  last  so 
disagreeable,  as  to  defeat  altogether  the  success  of  a 
public  speaker,  by  exciting  the  utmost  impatience, 
and  disgust  in  his  audience. 

The  following  states  of  the  voice  may  he  consider- 
ed as  pitches  or  keys  ;  they  are  all  included  in  JMo* 
dulatioD. 

TT-  t.    »     1         .  1   >  Forcible,  may  be  high,Ioud,and 
High,  loud,   quick.  ^^^^^i,j,.  or  low,  loud?and  quick. 

r  ci     1         )  Feeble  may  be  high,  soft,    and 

iow,  soft,  slow.  ^(      ^^^^^  .  ^4^^.^  ^J^  ^^^  ^j^^^ 


Cfrcltorieal  "Delivery,  4d 

Hence  the  following  combinations : 


High,  loud,  quick. 
High,  loud,  slow. 
High,  roi't,  qnick. 
High,  roit,  slow. 


Low,  loud,  quick* 
Lo\r,  loud,  slow. 
Low,  £olt,  quick. 
Low,  soft^  slow.* 


Thef:e  difTcrcnt  stales  of  \\\q.  voice  properly  manag- 
ed, give  rise  to  that  striking  and  l)eautiful   variety, 
which  always  prevails  in  good  speaking  and  reading  ; 
and  uhich  according  to  Quintilian,  alone  constitutes 
eloqu("nt  delivery. — It  may  not  he  improper  here,  to 
state  (what  is  frequently  confounded)  the  diSennce 
between  loud  and  soft,  and  high   and   low    tones. 
They  are  totally  flilTerent.     Viano  and/or/c  have  no 
relation  to  pitch  or  key,  but  to  force  and  quantity  ; 
and  when  applied  to  the  voice,  they  relate  to  the  body 
or   volume  which  the   speaker  or  singer  gives  out. 
We  can,  therefore,  be  very  soft  in  a  high  note,  and 
very  loud  va  a  low  one ;  just  as  a  smart  stroke  on  a 
bell,  m.ay  have  exactly  the  same  note  as  a  slight  one» 
though  it  is  considerably  louder.     When  wc  take  a 
high  pitch  and  give  little  force,  we  speak  high  and 
soft;  when  we  take  a  high  pitch,  and  give  great 
force,  we  speak  high  and  loud  ;  when  we  take  a  low 
pitch,  and  give  little  force,  M'e  Epea,k  low  and  soft ; 
and  when  we  give  \o  the  same  pitch  great  force,  we 
£  speak  low  and  loud. — It  may  be  remarked,  that  the 
*•  nature  of  the  human  voice  is  such,  that  to  begin 
speaking  or  singing  in  the  extremes  of  higii  and  low, 
are    not  equally  dangerous.      The  voice  naturally 
slides  into  a  higl^er  tone,  whqn  Ave  want  to  speak 
louder,  but  not  so  easily  into  a  lower  tone  when  we 
want  to  speak  softly.     Experience  proves  to  us,  that 
we  can  raise  our  voice  at  pleasure  to  any  pitch  it  is 
capable  of;  but  it  at  the  same  time  tells  us,  that  it 
requires  infinite  art  and  practice  to  bring  the  voice  to 
a  lower  key  when  it  is  once  raised  too  high.     It  ought 
therefore  to  be  a  first  principle  with  all  public  readers^ 

*  ViUe  Elements  of  Elocution. 


40  ~4  Dissertation  on 

and  speaker?,  rather  to  begin  below  the  common  level 
of  their  voice  than  above  it. 

Tiie  tones  of  the  speaking  voice  ascending  from  the 
loux'st  to  the  highest,  may  be  considered  in  the  fol- 
lowing series. 

1st,  A  whisper — audibie  only  by  the  nearest  persoif 

2d,  The  low  speaking  tone  or  marmur — suited  to 
close  conversation. 

3d,  The  ordinary  pitch  or  middle — suited  to  ge- 
Berai  conversation. 

4th,  The  elevated  pitch — iised  in  earnest  argument. 

5th,  The  extreme — used  in  violent  passion. 

To  the  variety  so  grateful  to  the  ear,  not  only 
change  of  tone  is  requisite,  but  also  change  of  deli- 
very. According  to  the  subject,  the  rapidity  of  th6 
utterance  varies,  as  the  time  in  the  different  move- 
ments in  music.  Narration  proceeds  equally,  the  pa- 
thetic slowly,  instruction  authoritatively,  determina- 
tion with  vigour,  and  passion  with  rapidity ; 

DIRECTIONS. 

1st,  As  the  vital  principle  of  t]-^  voice  consists  iiil 
those  tones  which  express  the  emotions  of  the  mind  ; 
and  as  the  language  of  ideas  however  correctly  deli- 
vered, without  the  addition  of  this  language  of  the 
passions  will  prove  cold  and  uninteresting,  variety  in 
delivery  is  a  most  important  point. 

2d,  As  the  dilikulty  of  pitching  the  voice  is  very 
considerable,  especially  if  the  place  be  large  and  the 
speaker  not  accustomed  to  it,  he  should  begin  some- 
what below  rather  than  above  the  ordinary  pitch  :  for 
it  i?  much  easier  to  ascend  than  to  lower  the  pitch. 


Oraloncal  Ucliverij.  17 

od,  Every  spealier  oaiglit  to  deliver  the  greatest 
part  of  his  O  iKcourse  in  tiie  middle  pitch  ci  his  voice. 
For  this  is  the  pitch  which  admits  of  ascending  or 
descending  with  the  greatest  ease :  and  the  organs 
having  more  practice  in  this  than  any  other,  they  are 
stronger,  and  can  continue  longer  witliout  being  fa- 
tigued. 

4th,  The  speaker  must  lake  great  care  not  to  run 
out  of  breath,  which  always  occasions  pain  to  the  au- 
dience ;  except  in  the  expression  of  some  particular 
passions ;  and  even  i\\^r\  he  must  only  seem  to  be  de- 
ficient. The  lungs  should  therefore  always  be  inflat- 
ed to  a  certain  d'.-gree,  that  he  may  have  a  plentiful, 
supply  always  at  command. 

'  5th,  In  rooms  or  places  where  the  echo  from  its 
quick  return  disturbs  the  speaker,  he  must  lessen  the 
quantity  of  his  voice  till  the  echo  ceases  to  be  percep- 
tible. When  he  is  disturbed  by  the  slowly  returning 
echo,  let  him  take  care  to  be  much  slower  and  more 
distinct  in  his  utterance  than  usual,  and  to  make  his 
pauses  longer.  He  should  attend  to  the  returning 
sound,  and  not  begin  after  a  pause  till  the  sound  is 
ceased. 

6tli,  In  v^ery  large  buildings,  where  the  speaker  has 
little  more  advantage  than  if  he  were  in  the  open  air, 
he  must  regulate  his  voice  accordingly,  and  make  it 
-audible  as  far  as  he  can,  without  straining ;  in  such  si- 
tuations, loudness  is  preferable  to  highness  of  voice. 

rth,  A  speaker,  to  be  well  heard  by  all  his  audience, 
must  fill  the  place  in  Avhich  he  speaks ;  he  will  dis- 
cover that  he  has  accomplished  this  by  tho  return  of 
his  voice  to  his  own  ear — In  order  to  be  well  heard, 
distinctness  of  articulation  is  the  first  requisite. 

8th,  Every  speaker  should  know  the  power  and  ex- 
tipntof  hif5  voice  :  of  this  he  is  enabled  accurately  <5 


4S  -/  Dissprtalion  on 

judge,  by  the  degree  of  exertion  necessary  for  him  t' 
4ill  a  place  of  any  particular  size  :  and  also  l)y  the  dt 
•i;:i-ees  of  attention  in  the  most  distant  ])arts  of  his  iv 
iicnce. 


EXAJIPLES  OF  MODCLATION- 
LOW  KEY. 

Son,  said  the  hermif,  let  tlie  errors  and  follies,  ihi 
•langer  and  escape  of  this  day  sink  deep  into  thy  heart. 
Remember,  my  son,  that  human  life  is  the  journey  of 
a  day,  we  rise  in  the  morning  of  youth,  full  of  vigour, 
and  full  of  expectation  ;  ne  set  forward  vriih.  spirit 
-«i.)id  hoj)c,  with  gaiety  and  with  diligence,  and  travel 
on  a  while  iti  the  straight  road  of  piety  towards  the 
mansions  of  rest.     In  a  short  time  we  remit  our  fer- 
vour, and  endeavour  to  find  some  mitigation  of  our  du- 
ty, and  some  more  easy  means  of  obtaining  the  same 
tnd.     We  then  relax  our  vigour,  and  resolve  no  long- 
er to  be  terrified  with  crimes  at  a  distance,  l)ut  rely 
«4jpon  our  own  constancy,  and  venture  to  approacla 
what  we  resolved  never  to  touch.     We  then  enter 
the  bowers  of  ease,  and  repose  in  the  shades  of  secu- 
rity.    There  the  heart  softens  and  vigilance  subsides ; 
wc  are  then  willing  to  inquire  whether  another  ad- 
vance cannot  be  made,  and  whether  wc  may  not  at 
least  turn  our  eyes  upon  the  gardens  of  pleasure  :  wt 
approach  them  with  scruple  and  hesitation  ;  \re  enter 
them,  but  enter  timorous  and  trembling,  and  always 
hope  to  pass  through  them  without  losing  the  road  to 
virtue,  which  for  a  while  wc  keep  in  our  siglit,  and  to 
which  we  propose  to  return.     But  temptation  suc- 
ceeds temptation,  and  one  compliance  prepares  us 
for  another  ;  we  in  time  lose  the  happiness  of  inno- 
cence, and  solace  cur  disquiet  with  sensual  gratifica- 
tions.    By  degrees,  we  let  fall  the  remembrance  of 
our  original  intention,  and  qyai  the  only  adequate  ob 


Otatorical  Delivery.  €l& 

jCct  of  rational  desire.  We  entangle  ourselves  in 
business,  immerge  ourselves  in  luxury,  and  rove 
through  the  labyrinths  of  inconstancy,  till  the  dark- 
ness of  old  age  begins  to  invade  us,  and  disease  and 
anxiety  obstruct  our  way.  We  then  look  back  upon 
our  lives  w  ith  horror,  with  sorrow,  with  repentance  ; 
and  wish,  but  too  often  vainly  wish,  that  we  had  not 
forsaken  the  v/ays  of  virtue.  Happy  are  they,  my 
son,  who  shall  learn  from  thy  example  not  to  despair : 
but  shall  remember,  that,  though  the  day  is  past,  and 
their  strength  is  wasted,  there  yet  remains  one  effort 
to  be  made:  that  reformation  is  never  hopeless,  nor 
-incere  endeavours  ever  unassisted  ;  that  the  wander- 
er may  at  length  retmn after  all  his  errors ;  and  that 
!ie  who  implores  strength  and  courage  from  above^ 
sliall  hnd  danger  and  diliiculty  give-^vay  before  him. 
Cro  now,  my  son,  to  thy  repose  ;  commit  thyself  to  the 
.are  of  Omnipotence;  and  when  the  morning  all 
again  to  toil,  begin  anew  thy  journey  and  thy  life* 

Low  and  loud. 

The  inflexions  slightly  marked,  approaching  the 
i\Ionotone. 

O  thou  that  rollest  above,  round  as  the  shield  of 
my  fathers !  w  hence  are  thy  iieams,  O  sun  !  thy  ever- 
lasting liglit  ?  Thou  coniest  forth  m  thy  awful 
l;eau1y;  the  stars  hide  themselves  in  the  sky;  the 
moon,  cold  and  pale,  sinks  in  the  western  wave.  But 
thou  thyself  movesl  above  ;  Avho  can  be  a  companion 
of  thy  course  ?  The  oaks  of  the  mountains  fall ;  thy 
mountains  themselves  decay  with  years;  the  ocean 
shrinks  and  grows  again  ;  the  moon  herself  is  lost  in 
the  heavens ;  but  thou  art  for  ever  the  same,  rejoicing 
in  the  brightness  of  tliy  course.  \A'hen  the  world  is 
dark  with  tempest,  whenthunderS  roll,  and  lightnings 
I'.y,  thou  lookest  in  thy  I^eauty  from  the  clouds,  and 
laiighest  at  the  storm.  But  to  Ossian  tliou  lookest  in 
Tain ;  for  he  behold-:  thy  beams  np  more ;  whether 


oO,  -1  Dissertation  on 

ihy  yeiiow  hair  flows  on  the  eastern  <:Ioui.i,  or  ihcj 
Ireniblest  at  the  gates  of  the  west. 

But  thou  art  perhaps,  like  me,  for  a  season ;  thy 
years  will  have  an  end.  Tliou  wilt  sleep  in  thy  clouds 
careless  of  the  vcice  of  the  morning.  £xult  then,  O 
sun  !  in  the  strengtli  of  thy  youth.  Age  is  dark  and 
unlovely  ;  it  is  like  the  glimmering  light  of  the  moon, 
when  it  sJiines  through  broken  clouds,  and  the  mist  is 
on  the  hills ;  when  the  blast  of  the  north  is  on  the 
plain,  and  the  traveller  shrinks  in  the  midst  of  his 
journey. 

Low  and  Soft. 

How  the  sweet  moonlight  sleeps  upon  this  bank ! 
Here  will  we  sit,  and  let  the  sound  of  music 
Creep  in  our  ears  :  soft  stillness  and  the  night, 
Become  the  touches  of  sweet  harmony. 

O  my  dread  lord — 
I  should  be  guiltier  than  my  guiltiness, 
To  think  I  can  be  undiscernible. 
When  I  perceive  your  power  divine, 
Hath  looked  upon  my  passes ;  then,  good  prints, 
No  longer  session  hold  upon  my  shame. 
But  let  my  trial  be  my  own  confession  : 
Inmiediate  sentence  then,  and  frequent  death 
Is  all  the  grace  1  beg. — 

Middle  Key. 

There  is  nothing  magnanimous  in  bearirig  misfor- 
tunes with  fortitude,  w  hen  the  whole  world  is  looking 
on :  men  in  such  circumstances  will  act  bravely,  even 
from  motives  of  vanity  :  but  he  m  ho  in  the  vale  of  ob- 
FCUT-ity,  can  brave  adversity ;  who  without  friends  to 
encourage,  acquaintance  to  pity,  or  even  without  hope 
1,0  alleviate  his  raisfortunee,  can  behave  with  tranqui- 
lity and  indifference,  is  truly  great :  whether  peasant 
or  courtier,  he  deserves  admiration,  and  should  l.'e 
held  up  for  our  imitation  and  respect. 


Oratorical  Deliveri/.  5 1 

Middle  and  Soft. 

Kespect  and  admiration  still  possess  me, 
Checking  the  love  and  fondness  of  a  son  : 
Yet  I  was  tilial  to  my  humbie  parents. 
But  did  my  fire  surpass  the  rest  of  men. 
As  thou  excellest  ail  of  woman  Idnd  ? 

iMiddle  and  Loud. 

"My  sentence  is  for  open  iivar.     Of  \a  iles, 
More  unexjjcrt  I  l^oast  not :  them  let  those 
Contrive  who  need ;  or  when  they  need,  not  now. 
For,  while  they  sit  contriving,  shall  the  rest, 
I\Iillions  that  stand  in  arms  and  longing  wait 
The  signal  to  ascend,  sit  lingering  here 
Heaven^s  fugitives,  and  for  their  dwelling-place 
Accept  this  dark  opprobrious  den  of  shame. 
The  prison  of  his  tyranny  \\\\o  reigns 
jBy  our  delay  ? — No  :  let  us  rather  choose, 
Arm'd  with  hell  flames  and  fury,  all  at  once 
O'er  heaven's  high  towers  to  force  resistless  way. 
Turning  our  tortures  into  horrid  arms 
Against  the  torturer  ;  wlien,  to  meet  the  noise 
Of  liis  almighty  engine  he  shall  hear 
Infernal  thunder  :  and,  for  lightning  see 
Black  fire  and  horror  shot  with  equal  rage 
Among  his  Angels :  and  his  throne  itself 
iVIix'd  with  Tartarean  sulphur  and  strange  firey 
His  own  invented  torments. — But  perhaps 
Tiie  way  seems  difficult  and  steep  to  scale 
With  upright  wing  against  a  higher  foe. 
1-et  such  bethink  them,  if  the  sleepy  drench 
Of  that  forgetful  lake  benumb  not  stil!, 
That  in  our  proper  motion  we  ascend 
Up  to  our  native  seat :  descent  and  f:xll 
To  us  is  adverse.     Who  but  felt  of  late, 
When  the  fierce  foe  Iiung  on  cur  broken  rear- 
Insulting,  and  pursued  us  through  the  deep, 
Witli  what  compulsion  and  laborious  flight 


32  A  DUscrtatiott  on, 

We  punk  thus  low  ?     The  ascent  is  ca^y  tlicrr. 

The  event  is  fcarM.     Should  we  agahi  provoke 

Our  stronger,  some  uorse  way  his  wrath  may  find 

To  our  destruction  ;  if  there  he  in  hell 

Fear  to  l>e  \vorse  dcstroy'd.     AVhat  can  be  worse 

Than  to  dwell  here,  driven  out  from  bliss,  coDdemu'd- 

In  this  abhorred  deep  to  utter  wo  ; 

"Where  pain  of  unextinguishable  fire 

^Tust  exercise  us  without  hope  of  end, 

Xlie  vassals  of  his  anger,  w  lien  tiie  scourge 

lncxoraI)Ie,  and  the  torturing  hour 

Call  us  to  penance  ?     More  destroy'd  than  thus*. 

We  rhoukl  be  quite  abolish'd  and  expire. 

What  fear  we  then  ?  what  doul)t  we  to  incense 

ilis  utmost  ire  ?  which,  to  the  height  enrag'dj 

Will  either  quite  consume  us  and  reduce 

To  nothing  this  essential  ;  happier  far, 

Than,  miserable,  to  have  eternal  being ; 

Or  if  our  substance  be  indeed  divine, 

And  cannot  cease  to  be,  we  are  at  worst 

.On  this  side  nothing  ;  and  by  proof  we" fefcl- 

Our  power  sufficient  to  disturb  his  heaven,     ;  •, 

And  with  perpetual  inroad  to  alarm, 

Though  inaccessible,  his  fatal  throne  ; 

Which,  if  not  victory, — ^^is  yet  revenge. 

Higli  Key. 

What  was  the  part  of  a  faithful  citizen  ?  of  a  pru^ 
dent,  an  active,  and  an  honest  minister  ?  Was  he  not 
to  secure  Eul)Qsa,  as  our  defence  against  all  attacks  by 
tea  ?  Was  he  not  to  make  Bocotia  our  barrier  on  the 
midland  side  ?  the  cities  bordering  on  Peloponesus, 
our  bulwark  on  that  quarter  ?  Was  he  not  to  attend 
with  due  precaution  to  the  importation  of  corn,  that 
this  trade  might  be  protected  through  all  its  progress 
up  to  our  own  harbour  ?  ^Va.s  he  not  to  cover  those 
districts  w  hich  he  commanded  by  seasonable  detach- 
ment, as  the  Prnconesus  the  Chersoneus  and  Tenedos  ? 
tQ  exert  himself  in  the  assembly  for  this  purpose  ? 


Oratorical  Delivery.  0-3 

while  with  equal  zeal  he  laboured  to  gain  others  to  our 
interest  and  alliance,  as  Byzantium,  Abydos,  and  Eu. 
boea  ?  Was  he  not  to  cut  off  the  best  and  most  im- 
portant resources  of  our  enemies,  and  to  supply  those 
in  which  our  country  was  defective  ? — And  all  this 
you  gained  by  councils  and  my  administration. 

High  and  Soft. 

Ah !  Juilet,  if  the  measure  of  thy  joy 
Be  heap'd  like  mine,  and  that  thy  skill,  be  more 
To  blazon  it,  then  sweeten  with  thy  breath 
This  neighbour  air,  and  let  rich  music's  tongue 
Unfold  the  imagin'd  happiness,  that  both 
Receive  in  either,  by  this  dear  encounter. 

Oh,  Belvidera  !  doubly  I'm  a  beggar  ; 

Undone  by  fortune  and  in  debt  to  thee  ; 

Want,  worldly  want,  that  hungry  meagre  fiend, 

Is  at  my  heels,  and  chases  me  in  view. 

Canst  thou  bear  cold  and  hunger  ?     Can  these  limbs 

Enduj»  the  bitter  gripes  of  smarting  poverty  ? 

When  banish'd  by  our  miseries  abroad, 

(As  suddenly  we  shall  be)  to  seek  out 

In  some  far  climate,  where  our  names  are  strangers, 

For  charitable  succour  ;— -wilt  thou  then, 

When  in  a  bed  of  straw  vre  shrink  together. 

And  the  bleak  winds  shall  whistle  round  our  headsj 

W'ilt  thou  tlien  talk  tlius  to  rae  ?     Wilt  thou  then 

Hush  my  cares  thus,  and  shelter  me  with  love  ? 

IMy  voice  is  still  for  war. 
Gods !  can  a  Roman  senate  long  debate 
Which  of  the  two  to  choose,  slavery  or  death  ? 
No  ;  let  us  rise  at  once,  gird  on  our  swords. 
And  at  the  head  of  our  remaining  troops. 
Attack  the  foe,  break  through  tlie  thick  array 
Of  his  throng'd  legions ;  and  charge  home  upon  him. 
Perhaps  some  arm  more  lucky  than  the  rest, 
May  reach  his  heart,  and  free  the  world  from  bondao-e. 
E2 


ok  Outlines  of  Gesture, 

Ilisc,  fallicrs,  rise  !  'tis  Rome  demands  your  help  i- 

Kise  and  revenge  her  slaui;hter'd  citizen:-, 

Or  share  their  fate.     The  corpse  of  half  her  senate 

Manure  the  fields  of  Thessaly,  while  we 

Sit  here  deliherating  in  cold  debates 

If  we  should  sacrifice  our  lives  to  honour, 

Or  wear  thera  out  in  servitude  and  chains. 

Rouse  up,  for  shame  I     Our  l)rothers  of  Pharsalia 

Point  at  their  u  ounds,  and  cry  aloud — To  battle  • 

Great  Pompey's  shade  complains  that  we  are  slow  ;. 

And  Scipio's  ghost  walks  unreveng'd  amongst  us. 


OUTLINES  OF  GESTURE; 

Gestube,  considered  as  a  just  and  elegant  adapta- 
tion of  every  part  of  the  body,  to  the  imture  and  im- 
port of  the  subject  ^\  e  are  pronouncing,  has  always 
been  considered  as  one  of  the  most  essential  parts  of  ora- 
tory Its  power,  as  Cicero  observes,  is  much  greater 
than  that  of  w  ords.  It  is  the  language  of  nature  in  the 
strictest  sense,  and  makes  its  way  to  the  heart,  without 
tjie  utterance  of  a  single  sound.  Ancient  and  modern 
orators  arc  full  of  the  power  of  action;  and  action,  as 
with  the  illustrious  Grecian  orator,  seems  to  form  the 
beginning,  the  middle,  and  end  of  oratory. 

The  extent  and  variety  of  gesture  has  a  wider 
range  than  many  are  aware  of;  for  it  comprehends 
the  action  and  position  of  all  the  parts  of  the  body  ; 
of  the  head,  the  shoulders,  the  trunk  ;  of  the  arms^ 
hands,  and  fingers ;  of  the  lower  limbs,  and  of  the  feet : 
it  may  not  improperly  include  the  expressions  of  the 
face. — Gesture  has  one  great  advantage  over  the 
voice,  viz.  that  it  aiTects  the  eye,  \\  hich  is  the  quickest 
of  all  our  senses,  and  consequently  must  convey  the 
impressions  more  speedily  to  the  mind,  than  that  of 
the  voice,  which  affects  the  ear  only-  Nature  has 
given  to  every  sentiment,  emotion,  and  passion,  its 
proper  outward  expression,    Hence  what  we  frequent- 


Ouilines  of  Gesture.  5£> 

iiy  mean,  does  not  so  much  depend  upon  the  words 
which  we  use,  as  on  the  manner  of  expressing  them. 
Thus  nature  fixes  the  outward  expression  of  every, 
sentiment  of  the  mind.  Art  only  adds  gracefuhiess 
to  what  nature  leads  to.  As  nature  has  determined 
that  man  should  walk  on  his  feet,  not  on  his  hands, 
it  is  the  l)usiness  of  art  to  teach  him  to  walk  graceful- 
ly. Every  part  of  the  human  frame  contributes  to 
express  the  passions  and  emotions  of  the  mind,  and  to 
sho^v  in  general  its  present  stale. 

A  cast  of  the  eye  shall  express  desire  in  as  moving  a 
manner  as  the  softest  language ;  and  a  diHerent  mo- 
tion of  it  resentment.  To  wring. the  hands,  tear  the 
hair,  or  strike  tiie  breast,  are  strong  indications  of. 
sorrow.  And  he  who  claps  his  hand  to  his  sword, 
throws  us  into  a. greater  panic,  than  he  who  threatens 
to  kill  us.  This  language  of  nature  is  so  expressive, 
that  Cicero  informs  us,  that  he  frequently  amused 
himself  by  trying  this  with  Rocius  the  comedian,  who 
could  express  a  sentence  as  many  ways  by  his  ges- 
tures as  he  could  by  his  words. 

It  is  not  necessary,  as  some  late  writers  have  assert- 
ed, that  the  hands  should  never  be  idle.  Nature 
does  not  so  direct.  On  the  stage  where  the  action  is 
more  diversified,  and'\v'here  a  greater  profusion  of 
gesture  is  allowable,  than  in  Oratory,  Me  find  that  the 
most  celebrated  actors  and  actresses  do  not  follow  this 
lule.  In  many  parts,  of  an  oration  little  gesture, 
should  be  used,  in  some  the  speaker  may  be  almost- 
unmoved,  and  in  others  tlie  tone  of  voice  and  ex- 
pression of  countenance  is  sufficient.  It  is  net  neces- 
sary always  to  saw  the  air,  far  from  it..  But  it  is 
highly  necessary  to  consider  and  judge  when  the  air 
should  be  divided  by  the  arm,  the  weapon  of  the  ora- 
tor :  when  he  is  to  move  his  head,  his  body,  and  his 
limlxs ;  and  horn  he  is  to  do  all  this  Avith  propriety 
and  eftect.  The  art  of  gesture  however  cultivated,, 
is  not  to  be  used  for  incessant  flourishing :  this  would 
be  like  introducing  the  steps  and  bounds  of  dancing, 
bito  the  simple  movements  of  walking. 


so  Outlines  of  Gesture. 

The  variety  of  gestures  of  which  the  human  figure 
is  capable,  is  almost  infinite.  In  this  great  variety 
there  is,  however,  a  similarity  and  relation  among  ma- 
ny of  them.  The  parts  of  tlie  human  figure  which 
arc  brought  into  action,  cannot  in  truth  be  considered 
separate  ;  for  every  musck,  every  nerve,  over  which 
we  can  exercise  voluntary  action,  contributes  in  some 
measure  to  the  perfection  of  gesture.  The  most  dis- 
tinguished parts  of  the  body,  however,  which  affect 
the  principal  gestures  may  be  considered  the  fojlow- 
ing,  viz.  1.  The  head.  2.  The  shoulders.  3.  The 
trunk  or  bodj',  4.  The  arms.  6.  The  hands  and 
fingers.  G.  The  lower  limbs  and  knees.  T.  The  feet. 
The  orator  should  [my  great  attention  to  his  M-hoie 
outward  apt>earance.  Every  position  should  be  man- 
ly, graceful,  and  dignified  :  every  thing  that  is  awk- 
ward and  rustic  should  be  carefully  avoided. — The 
gracefulness  of  motion  in  the  human  form,  or  per- 
liaps  in  any  other,  consists  in  the  facility  and  security 
w  ith  ^^  hich  it  can  be  executed.  And  the  graceful- 
ness of  any  position,  consists  in  the  apparent  facility 
with  w  hich  they  can  be  varied.  Hence  in  standing, 
the  position  is  graceful,  when  the  v.  eight  of  the  body 
is  principallj'^  supported  on  one  {t^\  whilst  the  other 
is  so  placed,  as  to  be  ready  to  relieve  it  promptly  and 
•without  effort.  And  as  the  legs  are  formed  for  a  mu- 
tual share  of  labour  and  of  honour,  so  their  alterna- 
tion in  position  and  in  motion  is  agreeable  and  grace- 
ful— The  foot  which  sustains  the  weight  of  the  body 
must  be  so  placed,  that  a  perpendicular  line  let  fall 
from  the  hole  of  the  neck,  shall  pass  through  the  heel 
of  that  foot.  The  other  foot  is  merely  for  the  pur- 
pose of  keeping  the  body  properly  balanced  in  this  po- 
sition.  The  orator  is  to  adopt  such  attitudes  and 

positions  only,  as  consist  with  manly  and  simple  grace. 
The  toes  are  to  bs  moderately  turned  outwards,  but 
not  constrained;  the  limbs  are  to  be  disposed  so  as  to 
support  the  body  with  ease,  and  to  change  with  faci- 
lity. The  sustaining  foot  is  to  be  planted  firmly ; 
the  leg  and  thigh  bracedj  but  not  contracted,  and  the 


\ 


Outlines  of  Gesture.  57 

Knee  straightened  :  the  otiier  foot  must  press  liglitly,^ 
and  generally  at  the  distance  at  which  it  would  fall, 
if  lifted  up  and  aIIo\\ed  to  drop  by  its  own  gravity. 
The  trunk  of  the  body  is  to  be  mcII  balanced,  and 
sustained  erect  upon  the  supporting  limb.;, except  in 
such  attitudes  as  particularly  require  its  hiclination.; 
as  veneration,.supplication,  fear^  ^kc. 

In  changing,  the  positions  of  the.  feet,  tlie  raotions 
arc  to  be  made  with  the  utmost  simplicity,  and  free 
from  the  parade  and  sweep  of  dancing.  The  speaker 
must  advance,  retire,  or  change,  almost  imperceptibly^ 
except  only  when  particular  energy  requires  that  he 
should  stamp  v/ith  his  foot,  that  lie  should  start  back, 
or  advance  with  marked  precision. — The  general  rule 
for  changing  in  the  position  of  the  feet,  is,  that  it 
should  take  place  after  the  first  gesture  or  prej)aratiorr 
of  the  clianging  hand,  and  coincide  with  the  finishing 
gesture  :  and  it  is  to  be  particularly  observed,  that, 
the  changes  should  not  be  too  frequent. 

The  positions  and  motions  of  the  hands  are  so  nu- 
merous, and  may  be  so  exceedingly  varied  by  minute 
changes,  that  it  would  perhaps  be  impossible,  and  cer- 
tainly would  be  a  useless  labour  to  attempt  to  de- 
scribe them  all.  I  sliall  only  mention  some  of  the 
most  prominent,  and  such  as  are  of  mo?t  common  use 
in  pubhc  speaking.  Q,uintilian  considers  the  gestures 
cf  the  hands  of  such  importance  for  illustration  and 
enforcement,  tliat  he  even  attributes  to  them  the  fa- 
culty of  universal  language. 

Without  the  aid  of  the  hand,^,  says  he,  action 
would  be  mutilated,  and  void  of  energy;  but  it  is 
hardly  possible,,  since  they  are  almost  as  copious  as 
words  themselves,  to  enumerate  the  variety  of  mo- 
tions of  which  they  are  capable.  The  action  of  ths 
other  parts  of  the  body,  assists  the  speaker,  but  the 
hands  (I  could  almost  say)  speak  themselves.  Do 
we  not  by  them,  demand,  promise,  call,  dismiss, 
threaten,  supplicate,  e.^press  abhorrtnc-".  and  terror,, 
question  and  deny?  do  we  not  by  th"m  express  joy 
ai^d  sorrow,  doubt,  confession,  repentance,  raeasurej, 


^ 


Outlines  of  Gesture. 


quantity,  niunber,  and  time  ?  do  they  not  also  en- 
courage, supplicate,  restrain,  convict,  admire,  re- 
spect? and  in  pointing  out  places  and  persons,  do 
they  not  discharge  the  office  of  adverbs  and  pronouns  ? 
so  that  in  the  great  diversity  of  languages,  uhich  ob- 
tain among  a''  kingdoms  and  nations,  theirs  appears 

tome  the  universal  language  of  mankind. Cresol- 

lius  goes  far  beyond  Quintilian ;  the  very  contents  or 
title  of  tiie  chapter  in  which  he  treats  of  the  hands, 
are  in  this  spirit : — '  The  hand,  the  admirable  con- 
trivance of  the  Divine  Artist. — The  minister  of  rea- 
son.— ^Without  the  hand  no  eloquence.' 

...*  IMan,  I  say,  full  of  wisdom  and  divinity,  could 
liave  appeared  nothing  superior  to  a  naked  trunk 
or  a  block,  had  he  not  been  adorned  with  this  inter- 
preter aad  messeiiger  of  his  thoughts.*^ 

Every  thing,  it  must  be  confessed,  depends  on  the 
hand  :  it  gives  strength  and  colouring  to  eloquenee, 
and  adds  force  and  nerves  to  the  riches  of  tliougM,. 
which,  otherwise  languid,  creeping  on  the  gptiund, 
and  deficient  in  vigour,  would  lose  all  estimation^  _ 
In  my  judgment,  therefore,  the  hand  may  properl|F 
be  called  a  second  tongue,  because  nature  has  adapt- 
ed it  by  the  most  wonderful  contrivance  for  illustrat- 
ing the  art  of  persuasion. 

The  positions  of  the  hand  are  determined  by  four 
different  circumstances.  1st.  By  the  dispositions  of 
the  fingers.  2d.  By  the  manner  ia  which  tlie  palm  is 
represented.  3d.  By  the  combined  disposition  of 
bcth  hands.  4!th.  By  the  part  of  the  body  on  which^ 
Ihey  are  occasionally  placed 

FosUion  of  the  Arm. 


riRST  LINE. 

1.  Downwards  across. 

2.  Downwards      for- 

ward. 

3.  Downwards      ob- 

lique. 

4.  Downwards      ex- 

tended 

5.  Downwards  back- 

wards. 


SECOND  LINK.    I      THIRD  LINE. 

1.  Horizontal  across.  1.  Elevated  across. 

2.  Horizontal       for-i2.  Elevated  forwards* 

ward. 

3.  Horizontal 

lique. 

4.  Horizont.il 

tended. 

5.  Horizontal   back 

wards. 


ob-  3.  Elevated  oblique. 


ex-J4.  Elevated   extend- 
ed. 
5.  Elevated      back- 
wards. 


Outlines  of  Gesture.  5^)j 

These  fifteen  positions,  arising  from  three  original 
directions,  downwards,  JiorizontaJ,  and  elevated,  Avill 
vc  found  suliicient  to  represent  most  of  the  ordinary 
gestures.  They  contain  a  great  variety  ;  for  when 
they  are  performed  by  the  right,  by  the  left,  or  by 
both  together,  they  produce  forty-five  positions. 
Each  of  these  positions  may  be  varied,  almost  adinfi- 
iiitunif  when  we  consider  all  the  degrees  and  kinds  of 
tone,  passion,  and  emotion,  which  occur  in  public 
-peaJiing;  all  of  which  influence  the  character  of  the 
gesture,  in  the  same  manner  as  they  do  the  expres- 
sions of  the  voice. 

As  the  head  gives  the  chief  grace  to  the  person, 
so  does  it  'prmcipally  contribute  to  the  expression  of 
grace  in  Delivery.  It  must  be  held  in  an  erect  and 
natural  position.  For  when  hung  down,  it  is  expres- 
sive of  humility ;  when  turned  upwards,  of  arrogance ; 
uhen  inclined  to  one  side,  it  expresses  languor;  and 
^\  hen  stiff  and  rigid,  it  indicates  a  degree  of  barbarity 
in  the  mind.  Its  movements  should  be  suited  to  the 
character  of  the  delivery  ;  they  should  accord  with 
tlie  gesture,  and  fall  in  with  the  action  of  the  hands, 
and  the  motions  of  the  body.  When  the  hand  ap- 
proaches the  head,  the  head  bends  forward  to  meet  it ; 
when  the  hand  moves  from  the  head,  the  head  is  in 
general  held  back  or  averted  In  submission,  when 
the  hands  are  prone  and  the  arms  descend,  it  bends 
downwards,  and  accords  w  ith  the  movements  of  the 
hands  and  arms The  eyes,  which  are  of  the  ut- 
most consequence  to  the  orator,  are  always  to  be  di* 
reeled  as  the  gesture  points ;  except  when  we  liave 
occasion  to  condemn,  or  refuse,  or  to  require  any  ob- 
ject to  be  removed  ;  on  whicii  occasion  we  should  at 
the  same  movement  express  aversion  in  our  counte- 
nance, and  reject  by  our  gesture. 

The  sides  should  also  bear  their  part  in  gesture. 

The  motions  of  the  body  contribute,  says  Cicero, 
nmch  to  the  eliect  in  delivery.  Indeed  he'is  of  opi- 
nion that  they  are  not  inferior  to  the  hands.  In  his 
>'ork  Dc  0-atcrr,  he  says,  No  affected   motions  of 


■60  Outlines  of  Gesture, 

the  finger?,  no  measured  cadence  of  their  articulation. 
Let  the  gesture  ratlier  regulate  itself  by  the  move- 
ments of  the  whole  trunk,  and  by  the  manly  inflexion 

of  the  sides. The  raising  up  or  shrugging  of  the 

.shoulders  in  order  to  express  indiircrence  or  contempt, 
»€  merely  theatrical,  and  should  be  sparingly  used 
even  on  the  stage.  Quint-ilian  condemns  it  altoge- 
ther in  an  orator. 

The  Stroke  and  Time  of  Gesture. 

The  arm,  the  hand,  and  the  fingers  united  in  one 
flexible  line  of  several  joints,  which  combine  together 
their  mutual  action,  form  the  grand  instrument  of 
gesture,  or,  as  Cicero  calls  it,  '  tlie  weapon  of  ora- 
tory.' The  centre  of  motion  of  thi*j  combined  line, 
is  the  shoulder,  w  hich  does  not  move  altogether  iii 
the  form  of  an  inflexible  line  ;  but  each  joint  becomes 
often  a  new  centre  of  motion,  for  the  position  between 
it  and  the  extremity.  Accordingly  in  directing  the 
gesture  to  any  jmrticular  point,  the  u])per  arm  hrst  ar- 
rives at  its  proper  po.=ition,  then  the  fore  arm  turning 
on  the  joint  of  the  elbow ,  and  lastly  the  hand  moving 
on  the  joint  of  the  wrist;  and  in  some  cases  there  is  a 
fourth  motion  of  the  fingers  from  the  knuckles  next 
the  palm ;  this  last  motion  is  the  expanding  of  the 
collected  fingers. 

The  stroke  of  the  gesture  is  analagous  to  the  im- 
pression of  tlie  voice,  made  on  tliose  words,  which  it 
would  illustrate  or  enforce  ;  it  is  used  for  the  same 
purpose  and  sliould  fail  precisely  on  the  same  place, 
that  is,  on  the  accented  syllable  of  the  emphatical 
word,  so  that  the  emphatical  force  of  the  voice,  and 
the  most  lively  stroke  of  the  gesture,  cooperate  in 
order  to  present  the  idea  in  the  most  lively  and  dis- 
tinguished manner,  as  well  to  the  eye  as  to  the  ear  of 
the  hearer.  The  stroke  of  the  gesture  is  to  the  eye, 
w  hat  emphasis  and  inflexions  of  voice  are  to  the  ear, 
and  it  is  capable  of  equal  force  and  variety. — When 
ihere  is  little  cllbrt  or  variety  of  expression  of  voice, 


Outlines  oj  Gesture  61 

such  as  in  the  simple  and  narrative  parts  of  a  dis- 
•course,  the  gesture  in  such  cases,  if  any  be  used, 
ouglit  to  he  tame  and  simple ;  but  in  t]ie  more  impas- 
sioned parts,  they  are  both  equally  exerted :  the  voice 
is  elevated  and  varied,  and  the  gesture  becomes  more 
bold  and  frequent.  The  gesture  also  in  many  in- 
stances, imitates  the  inflexions  of  the  voice.  W  hen 
the  voice  rises,  the  gesture  seems  also  naturally  to  as- 
cend; and  when  the  voice  makes  the  falling  inflexion, 
or  lowers  its  tones,  the  gesture  folIo\vs  it  by  a  corres- 
ponding descent ;  and  in  the  level  and  monotonous 
pronunciation t)f'  the  voice,  the  gesture  seems  to  ob- 
serve a  similar  limitation,  by  moving  rather  in  the 
horizontal  direction  without  varying  its  elevation. 

With  respect  to  the  commencement  of  gesture,  it 
"is  a  good  general  rule,  that  It  should  accomparrf  th? 
"vvords,  that  is,  that  it  should  never  precede  nor  follow 
lliem.  But  it  must  be  observed,  that  this  is  only  a 
general  rule.  When  it  is  applied  to  the  calmer  parts 
of  a  discourse,  it  will  be  found  nearly  correct.  But  if 
the  speaker  be  warmed  or  excited,  some  dilfercnce  of 
time,  however  small,  will  take  place  between  the  ges- 
ture and  the  language.  Hence  the  order  of  the  com- 
bined  expressions  of  the  signs  of  a  public  speaker  will 
be  ihus :  in  calm  discourse  the  words  and  gesture? 
are  nearly  contemporaneous :  and  in  high  passion  the 
order  is,  J.  The  eyes.  2.  The  counteJiance.  3.  The 
gestures.  4.  The  language.  But  here  it  must  be 
j)articularly  noticed,  that  the  interval  bet\\'een  each 
is  extremely  limited. 

The  occasions  on  which  the  left  hand  may  be  used, 
are  nearly  the  following.  J.  When  the  persons  ad- 
dressed are  on  the  left  side,  lire  left  hand  naturally 
performs  the  principal  gesture,  in  oixler  to  avoid  the 
awkwardness  of  gesticulating  much  across  the  body. 
'2.  The  n:cessary  discrimination  of  objects  opposed 
to  each  other,  requires  the  left  hand  alternately  toas- 
c^ume  the  principal  gesture.  3.  The  advantage  o( 
variety.  4.  The  power  of  giving  i-ot  only  variety 
but  force  by  occasicnally  elevating  and  best  jwing,  u< 


62  Outlines  of  Gesture. 

it  were,  upon  the  retired  hand,  all  the  spirit  and  au 
Ihority  of  llxe  gesture.  These  changes,  where  the 
light  hand  resigns  1  lie  principal  gesture  to  the  left,  not 
only  take  place  in  dialogue  and  in  some  of  the  higher 
strains  of  tragedy,  but  even  in  oratory.  It  takes 
place  when  the  speaker  is  at  the  left  of  him  who  de- 
livers his  opinion. The  preacher  behig  ol)liged  to 

address  himself  to  every  individual  assembled  in 
the  church,  should  as  much  as  possible  extend  his 
attention  to  all :  and  must  of  course,  in  leaning  or 
turning  round  to  the  left  side,  oft«n  find  it  necessary, 
if  he  use  any,  to  make  the  principal  gesture  with  his 
left  hand.  The  barrister  has  occasion  to  use  the  left 
hand  also,  by  not  having  it  always  in  his  power  to 
place  both  judge  and  jury,  each  of  whom  lie  must  ad- 
dress, on  his  right  side.  These  are  the  principal  lo- 
cal situations  wliich  admit  the  gestures  of  the  left 
hand. 

The  hand  and  foot  should  in  general  correspond, 
that  is,  when  we  gesticulate  with  the  right  hand,  the 
Tight  foot  should  be  most  advanced  ;  and  vice  versa. 
JSome  particular  occasions  may  require  a  deviation 
Irom  this  rule,  but  in  general  it  will  be  found  correct. 

It  must  carefully  be  observed,  that  in  the  changes 
made  from  one  hand  to  the  other,  the  transitions 
should  be  managed  with  ease  and  simplicity.  As 
soon  as  the  advancetl  hand  has  made  the  stroke  of  its 
emphatical  gesture,  it  should  fall  quietly  to  rest ; 
whilst  at  the  same  time,  the  hand  which  in  its  turn  is 
to  assume  the  principal  action,  commences  its  prepa- 
ration for  the  ensuing  gesture. 

The  termination  of  gesture,  or  rather  the  emphati- 
cal gesture  which  terminates,  is  generally  made  about 
the  horizontal  elevation,  but  sometimes  may  also  be 
made  downwards  or  elevated  according  to  the  senti- 
ment. The  horizontal  termination,  suits  decision  and 
instruction  ;  the  downward,  disapprobation  and  con- 
demnation ;  and  the  elevated,  pride,  high  passion, 
and  devotion. 


Outlines  of  Gesture.  ^3 


OUALITIES  Of  GESTURE. 

In  order  to  the  better  understanding  of  the  charac- 
teristic difference  in  each  style  of  gesture,  it  will  be  of 
advantage  to  enumerate  the  different  quahties  Mhich 
constitute  the  perfection  of  gesture,  together  Avilh 
llieir opposite  imperfections.  These  may  be  consider- 
ed as  reducible  to  the  following.  1.  Magnificence. 
2.  Boldness.  3.  Energy.  4.  Variety.  5.  Simplici- 
ty.    6.  Grace.     7.  Propriety.     8.  Precision. 

1.  Magnificence  of  gesture. This  consists  in  the 

ample  space  through  which  the  arm  and  hand  are 
made  to  move :  and  it  is  effected  by  detaching  the 
upper  arm  completely  from  the  body,  and  unfolding 
the  whole  oratorical  weapon.  The  centre  of  its  mo- 
tion is  the  shoulder.  In  magnificent  gesture  the  ac- 
tion is  flowing  and  unconstrained,  the  preparations 
are  made  in  some  graceful  curve,  the  transitions  are 
easy,  and  the  accompaniments  correct,  and  in  all  re- 
spects illustrative  of  the  principal  action.  The  mo- 
tions of  the  head  are  free,  and  the  inflexions  of  the 
body  manly  and  dignified.  The  action  of  the  lower- 
limbs  is  decided,  and  a  consiilerable  space  (when  the 
local  situation  of  the  speaker  will  admit  of  it)  is  tra- 
versed with  firmness  and  with  force. 

The  opposite  imperfections  are  short,  and  dry,  and 
mean  gestures,  constrained  motions,  rigidity  of  the 
joints,  and  stiffness  of  the  body,  with  short  steps, 
and  doubtful  or  timid  movements, 

2.  Boldness  of  gesture. This  consists  in  that 

elevated  courage  and  self  confidence,  which  ventures 
to  hazard  any  action  productive  of  a  grand  and  strik- 
ing effect,  however  unusual.  In  this  sort  of  gesture, 
unexpected  positions,  elevations,  and  transitions  sur- 
prise at  once  by  their  novelty  and  grace,  and  thus  il- 
lustrate or  enforce  their  ideas  with  irresistible  effect. 

The  opposite  imperfection  is  tameniss ;  which  ha- 
zards nothing,  is  timid  and  doubtful  of  its  own  pow- 
ers, and  produces  no  great  effect. 


^ii  Outlines  of  Gesture. 

3.  Eneri^/  of  gesture. This  consists  in  the  firm- 
ness and  decision  of  the  whole  action  j  and  in  the  sup- 
port which  the  voice  receives  from  the  precision  of  tlie- 
(stroke  of  the  gesture  which  aids  its  emphasis. 

The  opposite  Imperfections  are  feebleness  and  in- 
decision. 

4-  VaricUj  of  gesture. — ^This  consists  in  the  abihty 
©f  rcadify  adopting  suital)le  and  different  gestures  to 
I'acli  sentiment  and  situiition:  so  as  to  avoid  recur- 
rin,:^  too  frequently  to  one  favourite  gesture  or  set  of 
gestures. 

The  opposite  imperfections  are  sameness,  barrenness, 
nionotouy  of  gesture  analogous  to  that  of  voice.  Va- 
riety of  gesture  is  so  essential,  tliat  even  the  most  ap- 
propriate gestures  nmst  be  avoided  if  they  recur  too 
often.  Nothing  is  so  injurious  or  di'^gusts  so  soon  as 
barrenness  of  manner ;  the  gesture  had  better  be  in- 
termitted, or  even  be  in  some  measure  wrong,  than 
pLnonotcnous — yet  there  is  no  fault  so  common. 

5.  SimpUcitrj  of geshtre.— This  consists  in  such  a 
character  of  gesture,  as  appears  the  natural  result  of 
Ihe  situation  and  sentiments ;  M-hich  is  neither  carri- 
ed beyond  the  just  extent  of  t  lie  feeling  through  aifeC' 
fation  of  variety,  nor  falls  short  of  it  through  meali- 
ness or  false  shame. 

The  opposite  imperfection  is  affiectatiOn. 

6.  Grace  of  gesture. — This  is  the  result  of  all  per- 
fections, arising  from  a  dignified  self-possession  of 
jnind  ;  and  the  powers  of  personal  exertion,  practised 
into  facility  after  the  best  models  and  according  to  the 
truest  taste. 

The  opposite  imperfections  are  awkwardness,  vul- 
garity, and  rusticity. 

7.  rropriety  of  gesture,  called  also  truth  of  ges- 
ture, or  natural  gesture. This  consists  in  the  judi- 
cious use  of  the  gestures  best  suited  to  illustrate  or  to 
express  the  sentiment.  Appropriate  gestures  are  ge- 
nerally found  in  some  natural  connection  of  the  senti- 
ment with  the  gesture ;  significant  gestures  are  stricV 
}y  connected  with  the  sentiments. 


Outlines  of  Gesture,  C#> 

The  opposite  imperfections  are  false,  contradicto- 
ry, or  unsuitable  gestures ;  such  as  produce  solecism, 
in  gesture. 

8.  Precision  of  gesture,  or  correctness ; Arises 

from  the  just  preparation,  the  due  force,  and  the  cor- 
rect timing  of  the  action :  when  the  preparation  is 
neither  too  much  abridged  and  dry,  nor  too  pompous- 
ly displayed  ;  when  the  stroke  of  the  gesture  is  made 
Avitli  such  a  degree  of  force  as  suits  the  character  and 
sentiment  of  the  speaker  ;  and  when  it  is  correctly 
marked  on  the  precise  syllable  to  be  enforced.  Pre- 
cision of  gesture  gives  the  same  eifect  to  actions,  as 
neatness  of  articulation  gives  to  speech. 

The  opposite  imperfections  are  indecision,  uncer- 
tainty, and  incorrectness,  arising  from  vague  and  saw- 
ing gestures,  which,  far  from  illustrating,  render  du- 
bious the  sense  of  the  sentiments  which  they  accompa- 
ny, and  distract  the  spectator.. 


OP  THE  SIGNIFICANCY  OF  GESTURE. 

Without  entering  largely  into  the  subject  of  signiii  . 
cant  gestures,  a  few  ol  tlie  principal  ones  will  at 
present  suffice.. 

The  Head  and  Face. 
The  hanging  down  of  the  head  denotes  shame  or 

grief.. 
The  holding  it  up,  pride  or  courage. 
To  nod  forward  implies  assent. 
To  toss  the  head  back,  dissent.. 
The  inclination  of  the  head  implies  bashfalness  or  Ijan.-. 

guor;. 
The  head  averted  is  dislike  or  horror. 
It  leans  forward  in  attention. 

The  Eyes. 
The  eyes  are  raised  in  prayer.. 
They  weep  in  sorrow. 
TJiey  burn  In  anger,  .   . 


'  CG  Outlines  of  Gesture. 

Thoy  are  downcast  or  averted  in  shame. 

They  are  cast  on  vacancy  in  thought. 

They  are  thrown  into  dillevtnt  directions  in  doubt 

and  anxiety. 

7'he  Arms. 
The  arm  is  projected  forward  in  authority. 
IJolh  arms  are  spread  extended  in  admiration. 
They  are  both  held  forward  in  iniplorinc^  help. 
They  both  fall  suddenly  in  disappointment. 

The  Ilnnds. 
The  hand  on  the  head,  mdicates  pain  or  distress. 
On  the  eyes,  shame. 
On  tlie  lips,  injunction  of  silence. 
On  the  brcaJ,  it  appeals  to  conscience,  or  intimates 

desire. 
The  hand  moves  or  flourishes  in  joy  or  contempt* 
Both  hands   are  held  supine,  applied  or  clasped  ftt 

prayer. 
Both  descend  prone  in  blessing. 
They  are  clasjjed  or  wrung  in  affliction. 
They  are  held  forward  and  received  in  friendship. 

The  Bodjj. 
The  body  held  erect  indicates  steadiness  and  courage, 
Thro\\  n  back,  pride. 

Stooping  forward,  condescension  or  compassion. 
Bend  in?,  reverence  or  respect. 
Prostration,  the  utmost  humility  or  abasement. 

The  Lorver  Limbs. 
Their  firm  position,  signifies  courage  or  obstinacy. 
JJendcd  knees,  timidity  or  weakness. 
Frequent  change,  disturbed  thoughts. 
.[  hey  advance  in  desire  or  courage, 
/let ire  in  aversion  or  fear. 
Start  in  terror. 
Stamp  in  authority  or  rage. 
Kneel  in  submission  and  prayer. 

These  are  a  few  of  the  simple  gestures  which  may 
be  termed  significant. 

It  may  be  proper  also  to  enumerate  some  of  the 
complex  significant  gestures. 


I 


Outlines  of  Gesture.  6? 

Terror  excites  the  persoH  \vho  suffers  under  it,  to 
avoid  or  to  escape  from  the  dreaded  object.  If  it  be 
supposed  to  be  some  dangerous  reptile  on  the  ground^ 
and  very  near,  the  expression  is  represented  by  the  fi- 
gure  starting  back,  and  loolcing^  downwards.  If  the 
danger  threaten  from  a  distance,  the  terror  arising  i& 
expressed  by  the  figure  looking  forwards,  and  not 
starting  back  but  merely  in  the  reth^ed  position.  But 
if  the  dread  of  impending  deatli  from  the  hand  of  an 
enemy  awaken  this  passion,  tlie  coward  flies. 

Aversion  is  expressed  by  two  gestures ;  first  the 
hand  held  vertical  is  retracted  towards  the  face,  the 
eyes  and  head  are  for  a  monnnt  directed  eagerly  to- 
wards the  object,  and  the  feet  advance.  Then  sud- 
denly the  eyes  are  withdrawn,  the  head  is  averted,  the 
feet  retire,  and  the  arms  are  projected  out  extended 
against  the  object,  the  hands  vertical. 

Horror,  which  is  aversion  or  astonishment  min- 
gled with  teiTor,  is  seldom  capable  of  retreating,  but 
'remains  petrified  in  one  attitude,  with  the  eyes  rivet- 
ed on  its  object,  and  the  arm  held  forward  to  guard 
the  person,  the  hands  vertical,  and  the  whole  frame 
trembling. 

Admiration,  if  of  surrounding  natural  objects  of  a 
pleasing  kind,  holds  both  hands  vertical  and  across, 
and  moves  them  outwards  extended.  If  admiration 
arise  from  some  extraordinary  or  unexpected  circum- 
gtances,  the  hands  are  thrown  up  supine  elevated,  to- 
gether with  the  countenance  and  eyes. 
''  Veneration  crosses  both  hands  on  the  breast,  casts 
down  the  eyes  slowly,  and  bows  the  head. 

DepreciUion  advances  in  an  extended  position  of  the 
feet,  approaching  to  kneeling,  clasps  the  hands  forci- 
bly together,  throws  back  the  head,  sinking  it  be- 
tween the  shoulders,  and  looks  earnestly  up  to  the 
person  implored. 

In  appealing  to  heaven  the  right  hand  is  first  laid 
on  the  breast,  the  left  is  projected  supine  upwards, 

the  eyes  first  directed  forwards,  then  upwards. 

In  the  appeal  to  conscience,  tiie  right  hand  is  laid  on 


•8'  Outlines  p/  Gesture. 

the  breast,  the  left  Urops  unmoved,  the  eyes  are  fixed' 
upon  the  person  ivUdressed ;  sometimes  both  bands 
pre  ss  tlie  breast. 

Shame  in  the  extreme,  sinks  on  the  knee,  and  covers 
th;'  eyes  with  both  h^^^ds. 

Grief,  arising  from  sudden  and  afflicting  intelH- 
gcnce,  covers  the  t>yes  with  one  hand,  advances  for- 
w  ards  and  throws  back  the  other  hand. 

Attention  demanding  silence,  holds  the  finger  OQ' 
the  lips,  and  leans  fwuwards,  sometimes  repressing  with 
the  left  hand. 

Distress  when  extreme,  lays  the  palm  of  the  hand 
upon  the  forehead,  tl-rows  the  head  and  body  back,, 
and  retires  with  a  long  and  sudden -step. 

Deliberation  on  ordinary  subjects  holds  the  chin,, 
and  sets  the  arms  a  kimbo. 

SclJ-SuJicienet/  folds  the  arms  and  sets  himself  on 
his  centre, 

Fride  throws  back  the  body,  holds  the  head  high,, 
and  nearly  presents  forward  his  elbows  a  kimbo. 

Melancholy  is  a  feeble  and  passive  affection  :  it  is 
attended  by  a  total  relaxation  of  the  nerves ;  the  head; 
hangs  to  the  side  next  the  licart,  the  eyes  turned  upon 
the  object,  or  if  that  is  absent,  fixed  on  the  ground,, 
the  hand.s  hanging  down  by  their  own  weight  with- 
out effort,  and  joined  loosely  together. 

Anxiety  is  of  a  different  character,  it  is  restless  and' 
active,  and  manifest  by  the  extension  of  the  muscles : 
the  eye  is  filled  with  fire,  the  breathing  is  quick,  the 
motion  is  hurried,  the  head  is  thrown  back,  the  whole 
body  is  extended.  Like  a  sick  man,  the  sufferer  toss- 
es incessantly,  and  finds  himself  uneasy  in  every  situ-- 
ation; 

These  are  some  of  the  most  obvious  simple  and  contf- 
plex  significant  gestures. 

The  Grace  of  Action. 

The  grace  of  oratorical  action  consists  chiefly  in-  \ 

the  facility,  the  freedom,  tlie  vaiiety,  and  the  sinK  ■ 

plicity  of  those  gestures  which  illustrate  the  discour^  ] 


Outlines  of  Gesture.  69? 

Graceful  position  i)reced€s  graceful  action.  Graceful 
action  must  be  performed  with  facility,  because  the 
aj)])earajice  of  great  ellbrts  is  incompatible  with  ease, 
^*  hicli  is  one  constituent  part  of  grace. — Freedom  is 
also  necessary  to  gracefulness  of  action.  No  gestures 
ean  be  graceful^  uhich  are  confined  witli  external  cir- 
cumstances, or  restrained  by  the  mind. — Variety  is 
likewise  indispeasable  for  the  maintenance  of  grace 
in  rhetorical  action.  The  iteration  of  the  same  ges- 
ture or  set  of  gestures,  however  graceful  in  them- 
selves, betrays  a  povepty  in  resources,  whicli  is  alto- 
gether prejudicial  to  the  speaker.  They  have  an  ef- 
fect ev^n  worse  than  monotony  of  tones,  m  hich  may 
be  pardoned  as  arising  from  natural  deficiency,  but  a 
ilne  gesture  can  be  assumed  only  for  ornament,  and 
may  be  repeated  to  disgust. — 

But  siraplieity  and  truth  of  manner,  if  not  consti- 
tuting grace  in  themselves  are  inseparable  from  it. 
The  gestures  must  appear  to  be  used  only  for  the  bet- 
ter supporting  the  sentiments  of  the  mind,  and  for  no 
other  purpose.  Gestures  which  are  manifestly  con- 
trived for  the  mere  display  of  the  person,  or  for  the 
exhibition  of  some  foppery,  as  a  delicate  white  hand, 
a  fine  handkerchief,  &,g.  instantly  oiTtnd.  Fine  ges- 
tures are  to  be  used  only,  when  the  mind  is  elevated, 
and  the  sentiments  magnificent ;  and  energetic  ges- 
tures, when  it  is  ard^tnt  and  e£u*nest. 

To  simplicity  of  gesture  is  opjjosed  affectation ; 
that  falsehood  of  action,  which  destroys  every  pre- 
tension to  genuine  grace.  The  more  sliowy  and  fine 
gestures  are,  iwiless  they  belong  indispensably  to  the 
subject,  to  the  aiJeetion  of  the  mind,  and  to  the  cha- 
racter of  the  speaker,  the  more  do  tliey  offend  the  ju- 
dicious by  their  manifest  affectation.  If  dignity  be 
assumed  w  here  none  is  found  in  the  sentiment,  pathos 
without  any  thing  interesting,  vehemence  in  trifles, 
and  solemnity  upon  common-place  ;  f^uch  affrctation 
may  impose  on  the  ignorant,  but  makes  '•  tlie  judi- 
cious grieve."  Simplicity  which  constitutes  the  true 
S^rage  ixi  manners  and  in  dress,  should  equally  be 


TO  Outlines  of  Gesture. 

©bserved  in  the  action  of  an  orator.     Early  good  ii, 
structions,  uith  constant  practice  and  imitation  of  tlu 
best  models,  will  estal^lish  habits  of  graceful  actioiu 
•vvilh  the  greatest  certainty  of  Buccess. 


1 


THE  ORATOR 


PART  I. 


PIECES  JJV  PROSE. 


CHAP.  I. 

PARAGRAPHS. 

SECTION  I. 

Education  and  instruction  are  the  means,  tiie  one 
v)y  UPC,  tl>e  other  by  precept,  to  make  our  natural  fa- 
'  iilty  of  reason  both  the  better  and  the  sooner  to 
judge  between  truth  and  error,  good  and  evil. 

He,  who,  in  the  same  given  time,  can  produce  more 
'han  many  others,  has  vigour ;  he  wlio  can  produce 
more  and  better,  has  talents ;  he  avIio  can  produce 
4vhat  none  else  can,  has  genius. 

The  eloquence  dictated  by  an  unfeeling  heart, 
Tnistakes  bombast  for  sublimity ;  rant,  for  strong  feel- 
ings; the  cant  and  whine  of  a  mendicant,  for  tJie  pa- 
thetic. Such  a  speaker  may  excite  the  admiration  of 
some,  the  contempt  of  many,  but  the  genuine  feelings 
of  none. 

The  chief  security  against  the  fruitless  anguish  of 
impatience,  must  arise  from  frequent  reflection,  on 
tlie  wisdom  of  the  God  of  nature  ;  in  whose  hand  are 
riches  and  poverty,  honour  and  disgrace,  pleasure  and 
pain,  life  and  death. 


75  Taritgraphs. 

Youth  should  be  addressed  •vvitli  apennepsand  affa- 
bility; the  aged,  wilh  meekness  and  modesty;  tlie 
dull,  witli  simplicity  and  perseverance;  the  intelli- 
gent, with  perspicuity  and  precision;  the  diflident, 
with  softness  and  condescension;  and  the  stubborn, 
with  boldness  and  resolution. 

If  we  would  have  the  kindness  of  others,  we  must 
endure  their  follies.  He  who  cnnnot  persuade  him- 
self to  withdraw  from  society,  must  be  content  to  pay 
a  tribute  of  his  time  to  a  multitude  of  tyrants ;  to  the 
loiterer,  \\  ho  makes  appointments  he  never  keeps  ;  to 
the  consultor,  who  asks  advice  which  he  never  takes  ; 
to  the  boaster,  who  blusters  only  to  be  praised ;  to  the 
coniplainrr,  who  whines  only  to  be  pitied  ;  to  the  pro- 
jector, whose  happiness  is  to  entertain  his  friends  with 
expectations  w  hich  all  but  himse»f  know  to  be  vain  ; 
to  the  eco.iomist,  who  tells  of  bargains  and  settlements ; 
to  the  politician,  who  predicts  the  consequences  of 
deaths,  battles,  and  alliances ;  to  the  usurer,  who 
compares  the  difli^rsnt  stale  of  (he  funds  ;  and  to  the 
talker,  who  talks  onij  because  he  loves  to  be  talking. 

The  first  and  most  important  female  qualitj",  is 
>weetness  of  temper-  Heaven  did  not  give  to  the 
fair  sex  insinuation  and  persuasion,  in  order  to  be 
surly  ;  it  did  not  make  them  weak,  in  oixler  to  be  im- 
perious ;  it  did  not  give  them  a  sweet  voice,  in  or- 
der to  be  employed  in  scolding  ;  it  did  not  provide 
them  with  delicate  features,  iu  order  to  be  disfigured 
with  anger. 

To  find  the  nearest  way  from  tnitli  to  truth,  or  from 
purpose  to  eifect;  not  to  \x^c  more  instruments  where 
fewer  will  ht  sulHcient  ;  not  to  move  by  wheels  and 
l-svcrs,  what  will  give  v,ay  to  the  naked  hand  ;  is  the 
great  proof  of  a  healthful  and  vigorous  mhid,  neither 
fce!>le  with  helpless  itmcccuce,  nor  overloaded  with 
unweildy  knov/ltdge.  . 


Paragraphs.  IS 

Slialcspeare  pleases,  not  by  his  bringing  the  trans- 
actions of  many  years  into  one  play ;  not  by  his  gro- 
tesque mixture  of  tragedy  and  comedy  in  one  piece  j 
Hor  by  the  strained  thoughts  and  a/iiected  witticisms, 
which  he  sometimes  employs ;  but  he  pltases  by  his 
animated  ami  masterly  representations  of  character, 
by  the  hvehness  of  his  descriptions,  the  force  of  his 
sentiments,  and  his  possessing,  beyond  ail  writers, 
the  natural  language  of  passion. 

There  are  people  in  the  world  so  selfish,  that  they 
seem  to  be  moved  with  nothing  but  what  directly  af- 
fects themselves:  if  their  own  private  affairs  sustain 
«o  damage ;  if  their  own  little  designs  succeed  t© 
their  wish  ;  if  their  own  grovelling  pleasures  are  not 
hiterrupted  ;  they  care  not  w  ho  is  happy  in  the  world, 
or  w  hat  quarter  of  it  is  struck  by  the  just  hand  of 
God. 

Diseases,  poverty,  disappointment,  and  shame,  are 
far  from  being  in  every  instance,  the  unavoidable 
doom  of  man.  They  are  much  more  frequently  the 
offspring  of  his  own  misguided  choice.  Intempe- 
rance engenders  disease,  slol h  produces  poverty,  pride 
creates  disappointiiient,  and  dishonesty  exposes  to 
shame.  The  ungoverned  passions  of  men,  betray 
them  into  a  thousand  follies  ;  their  f  jllies  into  crimes  ; 
and  their  crimes  into  misfortu/ies. 

How  many  young  persons  have  at  first  set  out  in 
the  \vorld  with  excellent  dispositions  of  heart ;  gene- 
rous, charitable,  and  humane  ;  kind  to  their  friends, 
and  amiable  among  all  with  whom  they  had  inter- 
course! And  yet,  how  often  have  we  seen  all  these 
fair  appearances  blasted  in  the  progress  of  life,  merely 
through  the  influence  of  loose  and  corrupting  plea- 
sures ;  and  those  very  persons,  who  promised  once  to 
be  a  blessing  to  tl)e  world,  sunk  down,  in  the  end,  to 
be  the  burden  and  nuisance  of  society. 


74i  Paragraphs. 

If  it  be  asked,  how  moral  agents  bccoinc  the  sub- 
jects of  accidental  and  adventitious  happiness  and  mi- 
sery ;  and  why  they  are  placed  in  a  state  in  which 
it  frequently  happens,  that  virtue  only  alleviates  ca- 
lamity, and  vice  only  moderates  delight:  the  answer 
of  Revelation  is  known,  and  it  must  be  the  task  of 
tliose  who  reject  it  to  give  abetter.  It  is  enough  for 
me  to  have  proved,  that  man  is  at  present  in  such  a 
state.  I  pretend  not  to  trace  the  '  unsearchable  ways 
of  the  Almighty,'  nor  attempt  to  '  penetrate  the  dark- 
ness that  surrounds  his  throne' :  but,  amidst  this  en- 
lightened generation,  m  which  such  multitudes  can  ac- 
count for  apparent  obliquities  and  defects  in  the  natu- 
ral and  the  moral  world,  I  am  content  with  an  hum- 
ble expectation  of  that  time,  in  which  *  every  thing 
that  is  crooked  siiall  be  made  straight,  and  every 
thing  tliat  is  imperfect  shall  be  done  away.' 


SECTION  II. 

A  THOUGHTFUL  judgc  of  sentiments,  books,  and 
Dien,  wiil  often  fmd  reason  to  regret  thot  the  lan- 
guage of  censure  is  so  easy  and  so  undefined.  It 
costs  no  labour,  and  needs  no  intellect,  to  pronounce 
the  words  "foolish,  stupid,  dull,  odious,  absurd,  ri- 
diculous. The  weakest  or  most  uncultivated  mind 
may  therefore  gratify  its  vanity,  laziness,  and  ma- 
lice, all  at  once  by  a  prompt  application  of  vague 
condemnatory  words,  w  here  a  wise  and  liberal  man 
Avculd  not  feel  himself  warranted  to  pronounce  with- 
out the  most  deliberate  consideration,  and  where  sCich 
consideration  might  perhaps  terminate  in  applause. 

By  the  unhappy  excesses  of  irregular  pleasures  in 
youth,  how  many  amiable  dispositions  are  corrupted 
or  destroyed !  Ho\v'  many  rising  j)owcrs  and  capaci- 
ties are  suppressed  \     How  many  flattering  hopes  of 


Paragraphs*  75 

parents  and  friends  are  totally  extinguished  !  Who 
f)ut  must  drop  a  tear  over  human  nature,  when  he 
beholds  that  morning,  m  hich  arose  so  bright,  overcast 
M'ith  such  untimelj'  darkness ;  that  good  humour 
which  captivated  all  liearts,  that  vivacity  which 
sparkled  in  every  company,  those  al)ilities  which 
w  ere  fitted  for  adorning  the  higliest  stations,  all  sacri- 
ficed at  the  shrine  of  low  sensuality ;  and  one,  w  ho 
Avas  formed  for  running  the  fair  career  of  life  in  the 
midst  of  public  esteem,  cut  off  by  his  vices  at  the 
l)eginningof  his  career,  or  sunk  for  the  -whole  of  it  in- 
to insignificancy  and  contempt ! — The^e,  O  sinful  Plea- 
suro,  are  thy  trophies!  It  is  thus  that  co-operating 
with  the  foe  of  God  and  man,  thou  degrades!  human 
honour,  and  blastest  the  opening  prospects  of  human 
felicity ! 

A  person  of  undecisive  character  wonders  how  all 
the  eml)arrassmtnts  in  the  world  happened  to  meet 
ejtacti}  in  his  way,  to  place  him  just  in  that  one  si- 
tuation for  which  he  is  peculiarly  unadapted,  and  in 
w  hich  lie  is  also  '^\  illing  to  think  no  other  man  could 
have  acted  \\  ith  facility  or  confidence.  Incapable  of 
setting  up  a  firm  purpose  on  the  basis  of  things  as  they 
arc,  he  is  often  employed  in  vain  speculations,  on 
some  different  supposable  state  of  things,  which 
would  have  saved  him  from  ail  this  perplexity  and 
irresolution.  He  thinks  what  a  determined  course 
he  could  have  pursued,  if  his  talents,  his  health,  his 
age,  had  been  ditierent ;  if  he  had  been  acquainted 
with  some  one  person  sooner ;  if  his  friends  w-ere,  in 
this  or  the  other  j)oint,  different  from  what  they  are  ; 
or  if  fortune  had  showered  her  favours  on  him.  And 
he  gives  himself  as  much  license  to  complain,  as  if  a 
riglit  to  all  these  advantages  had  been  conferred  on 
him  at  his  nativity,  but  refused,  by  a  malignant  or 
capricious  fate,  to  his  life.  Thus  he  is  occupied — 
instead  of  catching  with  a  vigilant  eye,. and  seizing 
with  a  strong  hand,  ad  the  possibilities  of  his  actual 
-ituation. 


•16  Taragraphs. 

There  arc  to  be  found  in  modern  language?,  vi^ 
Jhiable  specimens  of  every  kind  of  polite,  literaluie. 
The  English  language,  in  particular,  abounds  with 
writings  addressed  to  the  imagination  and  feeHngs» 
and  calculated  for  the  iniprovement  of  taste.  No> 
one,  i\  ho  is  not  so  far  blinded  by  prejudice,  in  favour 
of  antiquity,  as  to  be  incapable  of  relishing  any  thing 
modern,  can  doubt,  that  excellent  examples  of  every 
Icind  of  literary  merit  are  to  be  found  among  the  Bri- 
tish ^^Titers.  The  inventive  powers  of  Shakspeare, 
the  sublime  conc-^ptions  of  Milton,  the  versatile  genius 
of  Dryden,  the  wit  of  Butler,  the  easy  gaiety  of  Prior, 
the  strength  and  harmony  of  l^pe,  the  descriptive 
powers  of  Thomson,  the  delicate  humour  of  Addison, 
the  pathetic  simplicity  of  Sterne,  and  the  finished  cor- 
rectness of  Gray,  might,  w  ith  some  degree  of  confir 
dence,  be  respectively  brought  into  comparison  with 
.any  examples  of  similar  excellence  among  the  ancients. 

Gentleness  is  the  great  avenue  to  mutual  enjoyment. 
Amidst  the  strife  of  interfering  interests,  it  tempers 
the  violence  of  contention,  and  keeps  alive  the  seeds 
of  harmony.  It  softens  animosities,  renews  endear- 
ments, and  renders  the  countenance  of  man  refresh- 
ment to  man.  Banish  gentleness  from  the  earth ; 
suppose  the  world  to  be  filled  with  none  but  harsh 
and  contentious  spirits,  and  what  sort  of  society  would 
remain  ?  the  solitude  of  the  desert  were  preferable  to 
it.  The  conflict  of  jarring  elements  in  cliaos,  the  cave 
where  subterraneous  winds  contend  and  roar,  the  den 
where  serpents  hiss,  and  the  beasts  of  the  forest  howl, 
would  be  the  only  proper  representation  of  such  as- 
semblies of  men. — Strange !  that,  wliere  men  have  all 
one  common  interest,  they  should  so  often  concur  in 
defeating  it.  Has  not  nature  already  pjovided  a  suf- 
ficient quantity  of  evils  for  the  state  of  man  ?  As  if 
we  did  not  suffer  enough  from  the  storm  \v  hicli  beats 
upon  us  without,  must  we  consjjire  also,  in  those  so- 
cieties where  we  assemble,  in  order  to  find  a  retreat 
from  that  storm  to  !i;iirass  one  another  ? 


Paragraphs.  77 

Anger  is  the  strong  passion  or  emotion,  impressed 
or  excited,  by  a  sense  of  injury  received,  or  iii  con- 
templation ;  that  is,  by  the  idea  of  something  of  a 
pernicious  nature  and  tendency,  being  d*ine  or  intend- 
ed, in  violation  of  some  supposed  obligation  to  a 
contrary  conduct.  It  is  kindled  by  tlie  perception  of 
an  undue  privation  of  that  to  Avhich  we  thought  mr- 
gclvts,  in  some  degree  or  other,  entitled  ;  cr  of  a  posi- 
tive suj3ering,  from  which  we  claimed  an  exemption. 
These  are  obviously  the  exciting  causes ;  though  our 
ignorance,  or  inordinate  self-love,  may  suggest  erro- 
neous ideas  respecting  our  claims,  or  render  the  re- 
sentful emotion  very  disproportioned  to  the  ohence. 
Tlie  pain  we  surfer  from  the  injury,  the  unexpected- 
ness of  the  oifence,  our  wounded  pride,  &c.  are  so  apt 
to  disturb  our  reasoning  and  discriminating  powers, 
that  we  are  at  the  first  instant  prompted  to  consid t 
every  injury  received,  as  an  injury  intended  Nor 
are  there  wanting  numerous  instances  in  which  a  heat- 
ed and  irritated  imagination  attributt;s  design  to  the 
irrational  and  inanimate  creation,  in  order  to  gratify 
the  passion  of  resentment. 

So  painful  is  the  passion  of  Fear,  that  the  evil  can 
scarcely  exist  \\  hich  induces  anguish  equal  to  its  feel- 
ings. Innumerable  are  the  instances  in  which  the 
fear  of  a  calamity  of  the  greatest  magnitude,  has 
greatly  exceeded  the  evils  it  brought  with  it  r  and  the 
niin<l  has  resumed  a  tranquillity  under  misfortunes, 
ivhich  in  retrospect,  appeared  insupportable  Busy 
imagination  always  magnifies  the  evil,  and  caft;-  the 
darkest  shades  over  every  possible  c  -ncomitant.  It 
will  not  suiter  the  supposition  that  an;"  circumstance 
of  alleviation  can  be  attached  to  a  state  so  nmch  dre-id- 
ed.  But  when  the  dread';d  evil  is  arrived,  an  imme- 
diate release  from  the  agonies  of  fear,  is  of  it•^elf  a 
species  of  consolation.  In  the  worst  of  circumst  mce^, 
fear  yif^>lds it  i)l.ic  ■  to  sorr"vv  ;  wh'ch  v  certainly  some 
miti^ati.n  of  suiTering; — habit  r-concil' s  t^  many 
things,  which  were  at  first  repugnant  to  oiu'  nature  — 
Q2 


TO  Paragraphs, 

experience  in  a  short  time  points  out  many  comforts, 
■v\  here  they  were  least  expected  : — in  most  cases,  as 
soon  as  we  cease  to  fear,  we  ])egin  to  hope ;  for  there 
are  few  situations  so  completely  dark  and  gloomy,  as 
to  exckide  every  ray  of  consolatory  hope. 

True  politeness  is  modest,  unpretending,  and  gene- 
rous. It  appears  as  little  as  may  be  ;  and,  wlien  it 
does,  a  courttsy  wnuid  conceal  it.  It  chooses  silently 
to  forego  its  own  claims,  not  officiously  to  withdraw 
them.  It  engages  a  man  to  prefer  his  neighbour  to 
himself,  because  he  really  esteems  him  ;  because  he 
is  tender  of  his  reputation  ;  because  he  tliinks  it  more 
manly,  more  Christian,  to  descend  a  little  himself, 
than  to  degrade  another.  It  respects,  in  a  word,  the 
credit  and  estimation  of  his  neighbour. The  mi- 
mic of  this  amiable  virtue,  false  politeness,  is,  on  the 
other  hand,  ambitious,  servile,  timorous.  It  affects 
popularity,  is  solicitous  to  please,  and  to  be  taken  no- 
tice of.  The  man  of  this  character  does  not  offer, 
but  obtrude,  his  civilities ;  because  he  would  merit 
hy  his  assiduity  ;  because,  in  despair  of  w  innmg  re- 
gard by  any  worthier  qualities,  he  would  lie  sure  to 
make  the  most  of  this ;  and,  lastly,  l)ecauEe,  of  all 
things,  he  w^ould  dread,  by  the  omission  of  any  punc- 
tilious observance,  to  give  offence.  In  a  word,  this 
sort  of  politeness  expects^  for  its  immediate  olijcct,  the 
favour  and  consideration  of  our  neighbour. 

True  honour,  though  it  lie  a  different  principle 
from  religion,  is  that  which  produces  the  same  effects. 
The  lines  of  action,  though  drawn  from  different 
parts,  terminate  in  the  same  point.  Religion  embrac- 
es virtue,  as  it  is  enjoined  by  the  laws  of  God ;  hon- 
our as  it  is  graceful  and  ornamental  to  human  nature. 
The  religious  man  fears,  the  man  of  honour  scorns  to 
do  an  ill  action.  The  latter  considers  vice  as  some- 
thing that  is  beneath  him  ;  tiie  former  as  something 
that  is  offensive  to  the  Divine  Being.  The  one  as 
what  is  unbecoming,  the  other  as  what  is  forbidden. 


F-aragrap  Tis,  70 

Thus  Seneca  speaks  in  the  natural  and  genuine  lan- 
guage of  a  man  of  honour,  wJien  lie  declares,  that  were 
there  no  God  to  see  or  punisli  vice,  lie  would  not 
commit  it,  because  it  is  of  so  mean,  so  basCj  and  so 
vile  a  nature. 

Of  all  the  follies  which  men  are  apt  to  fall  into,  to 
the  disturbance  of  others,  and  lessening  of  themselves, 
there  is  none  raoi-e  intolerable  than  continual  egotisms^ 
and  a  pcrpetuah  inclination  to  self  panegyric.  The 
mention  of  this  weakness  is  sufficient  to  expose  it, 
since  1  think  no  man  was  ever  possessed  of  so  warm  an 
aiTection  for  his  own  person,  as  deliberately  to  assert^ 
tliat  it  and  its  concerns  are  proper  topics  to  entertain 
company.  Yet  there  are  many,  who,  through  want 
of  attention,  fall  into  this  vein,  as  soon  as  the  conver- 
.sation  begins  to  acquire  life  ;  they  lay  hold  of  every 
opportunity  of  introducing  themselves,  of  describing 
themselves,  and  if  people  are  so  dull  as  not  take  the 
hint,  of  commending  themselves :  nay,  what  is  more 
surprizing  than  all  this,  they  are  amazed  at  the  cold- 
ness of  their  auditors ;  forgetting  that  the  same  passion 
inspires  almost  every  body  ;  and  that  there  is  scarce  a 
man  in  the  room  who  has  not  a  better  opinion  of  him- 
self than  of  any  body  else. 


SECTION  III. 


No  other  disposition  or  turn  of  mind  so  totally 
unfits  a  man  for  all  the  social  olHces  of  life  as  Indo- 
lence. An  idle  man  is  a  mere  blank  in  the  creation  ; 
he  seems  made  to  no  end,  and  lives  to  no  purpose. 
He  cannot  engage  himself  in  any  employment  or  pro- 
fession, because  he  will  never  have  diligence  enough 
to  follow  it :  he  can  succeed  in  no  undertaking,  for 
he  will  never  pursue  it ;  he  must  be  a  bad  husband, 
father,  and  relation,  for  he  will  not  take  the  Ie<isit 


8D  Paragraphs^ 

pains  to  preserve  his  wife,  children,  and  family,  from 
starvini; ;  ;ind  he  must  he  a  worthless  iVirnd,  for,  he 
would  not  dr:iu'  liis  hand  from  his  hosuni,  though  to 
pr^jvent  the  destruction  of  the  universe.  If  he  is 
born  poor,  he  will  remain  so  all  liis  life,  which  he 
will  probably  end  in  a  ditch  or  yt  the  i^allows:  if  he 
embark  in  trade,  he  uill  be  a  bankrupt  :  and  it"  he 
is  a  person  of  fortune,  liis  stewards  will  acquire  im- 
nii'nse  estates,  and  he  himstlf  perhaps  will  die  in  the' 
Fleet. 

Of  all  our  passions  and  affections,  Hope  is  the  most 
universal  and  the  most  permanent.  It  incorporates 
uith  every  other  passion  and  aiicction,  and  always 
produces  beneficial  effects.  By  intermixing  with  our 
fears  and  sorrows,  it  excites  to  exertion?,  and  prevents 
the  horrid  inactivity  of  despair.  It  animates  desire  ; 
is  encouraged  l)y  success,  and  it  is  a  secret  ';ource  of 
pl^^asure  in  the  transjwrts  of  joy  ;  for  joy  triumphs  in 
success,  which  hope  presages  will  be  permanent.  As 
it  admini-ters  consolation  in  distress;  as  it  quickens 
all  our  pursuits ;  as  it  communicates  to  the  mind  the 
pleasures  of  anticipation  ;  as,  by  its  mild  and  yet  ex- 
hilarating iiiduence,  it  is  the  most  salutary  of  all  our 
alfectionate  sensations,  it  cannot  be  of  too  long  a  dura- 
lion  :  and  when  sanctioned  by  probabilities,  I  had 
almost  said  possibilitits,  it  cannot  be  too  much  in- 
dulged, as  long  as  prudence  permits  the  requisite  ex- 
ertions. 

Willie  the  vain  and  the  licentious  are  revelling  in 
tlie  midst  of  extravagance  and  riot,  how  little  do  tb;y 
think  of  those  scenes  of  sore  distress  ■which  are  passing 
at  that  moment  throughout  the  world;  multitudes 
struggling  for  a  poor  subsistence,  to  support  the  wife 
and  the  children  whom  they  love,  and  who  lo;  k  up  to 
them  with  eager  eyes  for  that  bread  which  th^y  can 
hardly  procure  ;  multitudes  groaning  under  sickness 
in  desolate  cotta^:es,  unattend'-d  and  unmourned ; 
many  apparently  in  a  better  situation  of  life,  pining 


Faragrap/is.  81 

way  in  secret,  with  concealed  grief?;  families  weep- 
ig  over  the  beloved  friends  whom  they  have  lost,  or, 
1  all  the  bitterness  of  anguish,  bidding  those  who 
re  just  expiring  the  last  adieu. 

By  disappointment?  and  trials  the  violence  of  our 
|)assions  is  tamed,  and  our  minds  are  formed  to  sobri- 
«ty  and  reflection.  In  the  varieties  of  life,  occasioned 
hy  the  vicissitudes  of  AvorJdly  fortune,  we  arc  inured 
to  habits  ])olh  of  the  acling  and  suiiering  virtues. 
How  much  soever  we  complain  of  the  vanities  of  the 
world,  facts  plainly  shew,  that  if  its  vanities  were 
Jess,  it  could  not  answer  the  purpose  of  salutary  dis- 
-cipline.  Unsatisfactory  as  it  is,  its  pleasures  are  still 
too  apt  to  corrupt  our  hearts.  How  fatal  then  must 
the  consequences  have  been,  had  it  yiekled  us  more 
Complete  enjoyment  ?  If,  w  ith  all  its  troubles,  we 
are  in  danger  of  being  too  much  attached  to  it,  how 
entirely  would  it  have  seduced  our  affections,  if  no 
troubles  had  been  mingled  with  its  pleasuresi 

The  most  common  propensity  of  mankind,  is  to 
store  futurity  with  whatever  is  agreeable  to  them ;  es- 
pecially in  those  periods  of  life,  when  imagination  is 
lively,  and  hope  is  ardent.  Looking  forward  to  the 
year  now  beginning,  they  arc  ready  to  promise  them- 
selves much  from  the  foundations  of  propriety  which 
they  have  laid ;  from  the  friendships  and  connexions 
which  they  have  secured  ;  and  from  the  plans  of  con- 
duct which  they  have  formed.  Alas!  how  deceitful 
do  all  these  dreams  of  happiness  often  prove !  While 
many  are  saying  in  secret  to  their  hearts,  "  To-mor- 
row shall  be  as  this  day,  and  more  abundantly,"  we 
are  obliged  in  return  to  say  to  them,  "  Boast  not 
yourselves  of  to-morrow,  for  you  know  not  what  a  day- 
may  bring  forth !" 

The  scenes  of  nature  contribute  powerfully  to  in- 
.^•pire  that  serenity  which  heightens  their  beauties^ 
find  is  necessary  to  our  full  enjoyment  of  them.     By  a 


82  Paragraphs. 

secret  sympathy,  tlie  soul  calclics  the  liarmotiy  whicL 
she  conteinplatt's;  and  the  frame  uitliin  assimilates 
itself  to  that  without.  In  this  state  of  sweet  compo- 
sure, we  becinne  susceptible  of  virtuous  impressions, 
fiom  almost  every  surrounding  object.  The  patient 
ox  is  viewt'd  with  generous  complacency;  the  guile- 
less sheep  w  ith  pity  ;  and  the  piayful  lamb  with  emo- 
tions of  tenderness  and  love.  We  rejoice  with  the 
horse  in  his  liberty  and  exemptions  from  toil,  while 
he  ranges  at  large  through  enamelled  pastures.  We 
are  charmed  with  the  songs  of  birds,  soothed  with 
the  buz  of  insects,  and  phased  witii  the  sportive  mo- 
tions of  fisJies  because  these  are  expressions  of  enjoy, 
mcnt ;  and,  having  felt  a  common  interest  in  the  gra- 
tifications of  inferior  beings,  Ave  shall  be  no  h-nger 
indifferent  to  their  suilerings,  or  become  wantonly  io-' 
stru mental  in  producing  them. 

Hell  you  truly  and  sincerely,  that  I  will  judge  of 
your  parts  by  your  speaking  gracefully  or  ungraceful- 
ly. If  you  have  parts,  you  will  never  Ij€  at  rest  till 
you  have  brought  yourself  to  a  habit  of  speaking  most 
gi'acefully  ;  for  I  aver  that  it  is  in  y^'Ur  power.  You 
^  ill  desire  your  Tutor,  that  you  may  read  aloud  to 
him  every  day;  and  that  he  "will  interrupt  and  cor- 
rect you  every  time  that  you  read  too  fast,  do  not  ob- 
serve the  proper  stops,  or  l^y  a  wronii:  emphasis. 
You  will  take  care  to  open  your  teeth  wh-  n  you  sppnk ; 
to  articulate  ev^ry  word  distinctly  ;  and  to  beg  of  any 
Iciend  you  converse  with,  to  remind  you  if  ever  you 
fall  into  the  rapid  and  unintelligible  mutter.  You 
will  even  read  aloud  to  youisclf,  and  tune  your  utter- 
ance to  your  own  ear  ;  and  read  at  first  much  slower 
tlian  you  need  to,  in  order  to  correct  that  shameful 
habit  of  speaking  faster  than  you  ought.  In  short, 
you  will  make  it  your  Imsiness,  your  study,  and  your 
pleasure,  to  speak  well  if  you  think  right.  Therefore 
what  I  have  said  is  more  than  sulfi".ient,  if  you  have 
sense;  and  ten  times  more  would  not  be  sufiicient,  if 
you  have  not ;  so  here  I  rest  it. 


l^arugraphs.  83 

I'he  culti%'ation  of  Taste  is  recommended,  by  tlie' 
happy  eii'ects  which  it  naturally  tends  to  produce  on 
human  hfe.  The  most  busy  man,  in  the  meet  active 
spliere,  cannot  be  always  occupied  in  business.  ]\Ien 
of  various  professions  cannot  always  be  on  the  stretch 
of  serious  thought.  Neither  can  the  most  gay  and 
flourishing  situation  of  fortune,  aii'ord  any  man  the 
power  of  filling  ali  Jiis  hours  w  ith  pleasure.  Life 
nmst  languish  in  the  hands  of  tlicidle  It  wi!i  fre- 
qu':ntly  languish  in  the  hands  of  the  busy,  if  they 
iiave  not  soma  employment  t-ubsidiary  to  that  which 
forms  their  main  pursuit.  Hs>w  tken  shall  those  va- 
cant s}>aces,  those  unemployed  intervals,  w  hich,  more 
or  less,  occur  in  th2  liiri  of  every  one,  !>?  fiiied  up  ? 
How  can  we  contrive  to  dispose  of  thum  in  any  way 
that  shall  be  more  agreeaijle  in  itf-eif,  or  more  conso- 
nant to  the  dignity  of  the  human  mind,  than  in  the 
entertainment  of  laste,  and  the  study  of  polite  litera- 
ture ?  He  who  is  so  happy  as  to  have  acquired  a  re- 
lish for  tiiem,  has  alway.i  at  Ir-md  an  innocent  and  ir- 
reproachaoff^  amusement  far  his  leisure  hours,  to  save 
liim  froni  thi'  danger  of  many  a  pernicious  pasfi  :n. 
He  is  not  in  haz-ird  of  bt-ing  a  bard*en  to  himself.  He 
is  not  obliged  to  ily  lo  \:^\^'  company,  'jr  to  court  the 
riot  .;>f  loose  pleasures,  in  order  to  cure  the  tcdiousness 
nai  existence. 


SECTION  IV. 

Taste  and  genius  are  two  words  fiequcntly  joined 
together;  and  therefore,  by  inaccurate  thinkers,  con- 
founded. They  signify  however  \.\\o  (juite  diii'erenl 
things.  Taste  consists  in  the  power  of  judginL'  ;  (Ge- 
nius is  the  power  of  executing.  One  may  liave  a  c  n- 
siderablc  degree  of  Taste  in  Poetry,  Elo'iuenc",  or 
-any  of  the  fine  arts,  who  has  little  or  hiu'dly  any  Ge- 
nius for  composition  or  execution  in  any  of  those  arts ; 


SI  Paragraphs, 

but  Genius  cannot  be  found  witliout  including  Ta.    \ 
also.     Gi  niuj!,  tlurtl'ore,  de^erves  to  l)e  considered    . 
a  higher  jjow  er  of  the  mind  than  Taste.     Genius 
uays.im ports  s.unething  inventive  or  creative ;  uhi 
does  not  rest  in  mere  a'nsihility  to  beauty  where  it 
perceived,  but  which  can,   moreover,  produce  n^ 
beauties,  and  exhibit  th  m  in  ucii  a  manner,  as  stror 
ly  to  impress  the  minds  ol  others.     Refined  Ta 
forms  a  goud  critic  ;  l)ut  (ienius  is  ■  farther  necess; 
to  form  the  poet  or  the  orator. 

The  Beauty  of  the  human  countenance  includes 

Beauty  of  colour,  arising  from  the  dehcate  shades  ^^ 
the  comi)lexion ;  and  the  Beauty  of  figure,  aris 

from  the  lines  which  form  the  dinerent  features  of  ; 
face.     But  the  chief  Beauty  of  the  countenance 
pends  upon  a  mysterious  expression,  whicli  it  c 

veys  of  the  qualities  of  the  mind  ;  of  good  sense,  : 

good  humour  ;  of  sprightliness,  candour,  benevole]  , 

sensibility,  or  other  amiable  dispositions.     Hoa  t 

comes  to  pass,  that  a  certain  conformation  of  feati  s 

is  connected  in  our  idea  witli  certain  moral  qualit  ; 

whether  we  are  taught  by  instinct,  or  experienct  3 

form  this   connection,  and  to  read   the  mind  in  c 

countenance,  is  not  easy  to  resolve.     The  fact  is  r- 

tain,  and  acknow  ledgeci,  that  what  gives  the  hu,  n 

countenance  its  most  distinguishing  Beauty,  is  wh  is 

called  its  expression ;  or  an  image,  wliich  it  is  i- 
ceived  to  show  of  internal  moral  dispositions. 

The  advantages  of  Writing  above  Speech  are,  it 

Writing  is  both  a  more  extensive,  and  a  more  pe?  a- 

nent  method  of  communication.     JMore  extensiv  as 

jt  is  not  conGned  within  the  narrow  circle  of  those  io 

Jiear  our  words ;  but  by  means  of  MTitten  charac  s, 

we   can   send  our  thoughts  abroad,  and  propc  te 

them  through  the  world  ;  we  can  lift  our  voii  so 

as  to  speak  to  tiie  most  distant  regions  of  the  e.  h. 

More  i)ermanent  also,  as  it  prolongs  this  voic  to 

the  most  di.stant  ages ;  it   gives  us  the  means  c  re- 


Paragraphs.  85 

cording  our  sentiments  to  futurity,  and  of  perpetuat- 
ing Ihc  instructive  nicmoiy  of  past  transactions.  It 
iiircwise  aJibrds  this  advantage  to  such  as  read,  above 
such  as  hear,  that,  having  the  written  characters  be- 
fore their  eyes,  they  can  arrest  tlie  sense  of  the  writer. 
They  can  pause,  and  resolve,  and  compare  at  their 
leisure,  one  jnissage  with  another:  whereas,  the  voice 
!3  fugitive  and  passing;  you  must  catcli  the  words 
the  moment  they  are  uttered,  or  you  lose  them  for- 
ever. 

Rut,  although  these  be  so  great  advantages  of  writ- 
ten Language,  that  Speech,  without  ^v  riling,  \rould 
have  been  very  inadequate  for  the  instruction  of  man- 
land,  yet  we  must  not  forget  to  observe,  that  spcAeii 
language  has  a  great  su[)eriority  over  written  lan- 
guage, in  point  of  energy  or  force.  The  voice  of 
the  living  speaker  makes  an  impression  on  the  mind, 
much  stronger  than  can  be  made  by  the  perusal  of 
any  writing.  The  tones  of  the  voice,  the  lookc  and 
gesture  which  accompany  discourse,  and  which  no 
wTiting  can  convey,  render  discourse  when  it  is  well 
mmaged,  infinitely  more  clear,  and  more  impressive, 
than  tiie  most  accurate  writing.  For  tones,  looks,  and 
gestures,  are  natural  interpreters  of  the  sentiments  of 
the  mind.  Tiiey  removt,  ambiguities;  they  enforce 
impression  ;  they  operate  on  us  i)y  means  of  sympa- 
thy, w  hich  is  one  of  tJie  most  powerful  instruments 
of  persuasion.  Our  sympathy  is  always  awakened, 
more  by  hearing  the  speaker,  than  by  reading  his 
works  in  our  closet.  Hence,  though  Waiting  may  an- 
swer the  purposes  of  mere  initruciion,  yet  ali  the  great 
and  high  oflic^is  of  eioqmncc  n;ust  be  made  by  mean? 
of  spoken,  not  of  written  Language. 

We  have  !)ecn  eminently  distinguished  above  most 
other  nations  Ijy  h.appy  pn\'ileges  and  adva.;tagefi. 
Trovidence  has  bhssed  us  with  an  abundance  of  t'iose 
things,  which  are  usually  thought  to  contribute  to  the 
public  prosperity  and  happiness.  Never  had  any 
H 


Sfi  Paragraphs. 

people  a  fuller  enjoyment  of  liberty ;  a  profusion  of 
wealth  has  flowed  in  upon  us  hy  our  wide  extended 
commerce.  We  have  had  great  advantages  for  im- 
jjrovement  in  the  arts  and  sciences,  and  every  branch 
of  useful  knowledge;  especially  that  which  is  the 
most  valuable  and  important  of  all  others,  the  know- 
ledge of  religion  in  its  truth  and  purity.  The  light 
of  the  glorious  Gosjjcl  of  Christ,  freed  from  the  ah- 
surdities,  the  superstitions,  and  idolatries  w  ith  which 
it  has  been  incumbered  in  many  other  countries  pro- 
fessing the  Christian  Faith,  has  long  shone  among  us. 
The  holy  Scriptures  are  not  locked  up  in  an  unknown 
tongue,  nor  confined  to  the  studies  of  thf'  learned,  but 
are  put  into  the  hands  of  the  people :  so  that  all  men 
may  have  access  to  that  sacred  rule  of  faith  and  prac- 
tice, the  original  standard  of  the  Christian  religion. 
The  treasures  of  knowledge  are  opened,  and  the  pub- 
lic instructions  so  freely  and  frequently  dispensed, 
that  it  may  be  said,  that  rtisclom  crietk  nithout,  she 
utter eth  her  voice  in  the  streets. 

Cicero,  in  his  works  upon  eloquence,  particularly 
his  conferences  upon  the  character  of  an  orator,  strikes 
by  liis  air,  freedom,  and  dignity;  Quintiiian  wins  by 
his  beauty,  regulaiit)',  and  address.  Quintiiian  is 
less  splendid  but  more  elegant,  he  is  less  commanding 
but  more  attractive.  If  Cicero  is  instructive,  Quin- 
tiiian to  instruction  adds  ailability ;  and  if  he  is  infe- 
i^ior  in  genius  to  Cicero,  he  is  equal  lo  him  in  abilities, 
and  superior  to  him  in  experience ;  1  mean  that  ex- 
perience that  can  be  nf  the  greatest  service  to  a  speak- 
er in  Britain.  The  style  of  Cicero  is  clear,  diliuse, 
and  patlictic;  that  of  Quintiiian  strong,  concise,  and 
cjpiessive.  If  Cicero  is  more  excellent  in  tlio  dispo- 
fition,  Quintiiian  is  more  exquisite  in  tlie  execution. 
Cicero's  abiUties  were  undouJ)tedly  best  fitted  to 
guide  the  movements  of  govermuent,  those  of  Quinti- 
iian to  determine  a  contest  at  the  bar :  Cicero  was 
more  decisive  in  debate,  but  Quintiiian  was  more  use- 
ful in  pleading ;  the  former  could  raise  a  spirit,  but 


Paragraphs,  ST 

the  lattej  could  direct  it. — Quintilian  never  was  ex- 
celled in  majeBty  but  hj  Cicero,  and  Cicero  never 
equalled  in  gracefulness  but  by  Quintilian.  We  are 
ashamed  to  diSe^  with  the  one,  we  cannot  rerist  the 
other.  Both  know  how  to  rise  with  temper,  and  tu 
fall  with  dignity.  Though  both  had  natural,  yet 
Quintilian  had  more  accidental,  advantages;  but 
though  Quintilian's  works  are  more  useful  to  an  Eng- 
lishman, yet,  had  he  lived  in  the  days  of  the  Roman 
republic,  the  pre-eminence  would  have  been  clear'v 
on  Cicero's  side. 


SECTION  V, 

An  able  master,  as  soon  as  a  boy  is  deKvered  over 
to  his  care,  will  examine  his  natural  capacity  and  dis- 
position; and  having  discovered  these,  he  will  soon- 
be  able  to  judge  in  what  manner  lils  pupil  is  to  be 
managed.  Some  are  indolent  unless  they  are  pushed 
on;  some  disdain  to  be  commanded;  fear  awes  some, 
and  disheartens  others;  some  hammer  out  their 
learning,  others  strike  it  out  at  a  heat.  Give  me  the 
boy  who  rouses  when  he  is  praised,  who  pronts  when 
he  is  encouraged,  and  who  cries  when  he  is  defeated. 
Such  a  boy  will  be  fired  by  ambition ;  he  will  be 
stung  by  reproach,  and  anaiated  by  preference  ;  ne- 
ver shall  I  apprehend  any  bad  consequences  from 
idleness  in  such  a  boy. 

If  we  have  received  from  heaven  nothing  more 
precious  than  speech,  are  ^ve  to  esteem  any  tiling  more 
worthy  of  our  attention  and  care  ?  Or  are  we  to  be 
more  emMlotis  in  excelling,  mankind  in  any  property, 
rather  than  in  that  which  exalts  man  above  all  other 
animals?  As  a  further  inducement  to  this,  we  are 
to  reflect,  that  no  art  so  plentifully  supplies  our  la- 
bQur,  by  a  harvest  of  every  thing  that  is  profitable  or 


88  Parng-raphs. 

agreeable.  Tliis  will  be  more  evident,  if  we  reflect 
Uj)on  the  ri?e  and  progress  of  cJoqucnce,  and  the  ini- 
l)rovements  it  still  admits  of.  A'ol  to  mention  how  it 
serves  our  friends,  how  it  directs  the  deliberations  of 
a  senate  or  a  people,  and  how  it  even  determines  the 
conduct  of  an  army  ;  hou  useful,  how  beconiinsj  then, 
is  it  in  a  man  of  virtue.  Is  not  this  single  considera- 
tion a  most  glorious  one,  that  from  the  uNderstanding, 
and  the  worrJs  that  are  in  common  to  ail  mankind,  he 
can  exalt  himself  to  such  a  pitch  of  glory  and  power, 
tliat  he  will  not  see.m  to  speak  or  to  plead,  but  as  it 
happened  to  Pericles,  to  lighten  asd  thunder.  But 
I  should  never  have  done,  Avcre  1  to  indulge  the  plea- 
sure L  feel  in  expatiating  upon  this  subject. 

"What  adds  infinitely  to  the  dignity  of  man,  is  this, 
that  he  is  the  image  of  God.  He  is  descended  from 
him,  is  his  oifspring,  and  bears  the  visiiile  traces  of 
his  derivation  from  lieaven,  and  his  communion  with 
the  supreme  Existence.  His  understanding  is  a  ray 
of  divine  intelligence  :  his  power  an  eiRux  from  that 
of  the  Deity  ;  lus  activity  something  similar  to  that 
of  God ;  iiis  capacity  of  becoming  constantly  more 
perfect,  is  a  capacity  of  a])proaching  nearer  to  t lie  di- 
vine nature;  liis  immortality  is  a  similitude  of  the  in- 
terminable duration  of  the  sovereign  Being,  and  the 
means  of  an  everlasting  communion  with  him.  As 
often  as  he  thinks  of  trutij ;  as  often  as  he  is  inclined 
to  goodness,  and  brings  it  to  eilect ;  as  often  as  he  per- 
ceives, admires,  and  promotes  order  and  harmony  ;  as 
often  as  he  spreads  love,  and  joy,  and  hr*ppinesc  around 
him ;  so  often  does  lie  think,  and  will,  and  perform, 
and  feel,  and  act  in  a  God-like  manner ;  so  often  does 
he  pursue  the  works  of  his  Creator  and  Father  ;  so 
often  does  he  promote-  the  designs  of  the  sovereign 
Being  ;  so  often  docs  he  obtoin  a  taste  of  pure  divine  ' 
felicity;  and  the  more  he  does  so,  the  oftener  he  acts 
in  this  manner,  the  greater  is  his  similitude  with 
God,  tlie  brighter  does  the  image  ol  God  shine  in  him, 
the  less  are  we  able  to  mistake  his  high  descent,  and 
to  overlook  the  dignity  of  his  nature. 


Paragraphs.  ov 

How  di£?nified  is  man,  when  we  consider  his  out- 
ward fisure  and  his  station  in  the  world.  Consider 
the  place  he  fills  upon  the  earth  ;  what  he  is  and  does 
with  all  its  other  inhabitants ;  and  in  this  regard  also 
you  cannot  mistake  his  dignity.  See  how  he  stands, 
full  of  conscicusner-s,  amidst  all  inferior  creatures  j 
how  exalted  and  eminent  is  he  above  them  ;  how  all 
proclaim  him  the  sovereign  of  the  globe  and  its  inha- 
bitants, the  substitute  of  its  Author,  and  the  priest  of 
nature!  With  what  a  comprehensive  view  does  he 
survey,  distribute,  order,  connect,  and  apprehend ; 
now  darting  his  eye  from  earth  to  heaven,  and  then 
looking  down  from  heaven  upon  the  earth  with  senti- 
ments of  delight ;  atiectionately  cherishing  every 
thing  that  livee  and  moves;  his  sentimental  heart  ex- 
pands to  the  innumerable  streams  of  pleasure  and  joy, 
which  from  all  sides  flow  to  meet  him,  till  he  is  lost 
in  the  sweetest  sentiments  of  love  and  adoration ! 
How  beautiful,  how  elevated  his  mein !  How  signi- 
ficant and  expressive  every  feature  of  his  face,  every 
attitude,  every  movement  of  his  person  !'  How  forci- 
ble is  the  language  of  his  eye  !  Kow  he  displays  his 
whole  soul  by  a  glance  of  it,  and  with  an  irresistible 
energy  at  one  t  ime  commands  reverence,  at  another 
submission  and  obedience,  and  at  another  love ;  now 
in5piring  courage  and  resolution,  then  pleasure  and  sa- 
tisiaction  in  all  ai)out  him  I  How  often  does  he  con- 
found the  wicked  wUh  a  look,  defeat  the  schemes  of 
injustice,  drive  sorrow  from  the  breast  of  the  mourner, 
and  dart  life  and  heavenly  joy,  where  darkness  and 
distress  prevailed.  Who  can  here  mistake  the  eleva- 
tion and  the  dignity  of  man ! 

The  writings  of  the  ancients  abound  with  eicellent 
productions  in  every  interesting  kind  of  compositioni 
There  is  no  pleasing  affection  of  the  mind,  which  may 
not,  in  these  invaluable  remains  of  antiquity,  find  am- 
ple scope  for  gratification.  The  Epic  muse,  whether 
she  appears  in  the  majestic  simplicity  of  Homer,  or  in- 
the  finished  elegance  of  Virejil,  presents  before  the 
U2 


00  Paragraphs. 

dfliglited  ima£>;ination  an  cntlJess  variety  of  grand  an-.. 
beautiful  objects,  intereFting  actionF,  and  charactery 
strongly  niark'd,  which  it  is  imp!)S.sibIeto  contemplate 
without  a  perpetual  succession  of  agreeable  emotions. 
Tragedy,  v.  luther  she  rages  ^vith  yEschy!us,  or  weeps 
Avitii  Sophocles,  or  raoralizes  with  Euriprdis,  never 
ceases  to  wear  a  dignified  and  interesting  aspect. 
Comedy,  in  the  natural  and  easy  dress,  in  which,  af- 
ter the  best  Greek  models,  she  is  clothed  by  Terence, 
can  never  fail  to  })lease.  Lyric  poetry,  whilst  it  rolls 
on,  like  an  impetuous  torrent,  in  the  lofty  strains,  and 
tlie  wild  and  varied  numbers  of  Pindar,  or  flows  in  a 
placid  and  transparent  stream  along  the  channel  of 
Horatian  verse,  or  glides  hriskly  through  the  bowers 
of  love  and  joy  in  the  sportive  lays  of  Anacreon,  by 
turns  astonishes,  soothes,  and  deliglits.  Elegy, 
throuah  the  soft  and  plaintive  tunes  of  Bion  or  Tihul- 
lup,  melts  the  soul  in  pleasing  sympathy :  whilst  Pas- 
toral Song,  in  the  artless  notes  of  Theocrites,  or  in  the 
sweet  melody  of  the  Mantuan  pipe,  plays  gently 
about  the  fancy  and  the  heart.  Satire,  in  the  mean 
time,  providefi  entertainment  for  those  who  are  dis- 
poned to  laugh  at  folly,  or  indulge  an  honest  indigna- 
tion against  vice,  in  the  smile  of  Horace,  the  grin  of 
Lucian,  and  the  frown  of  Juvenal.  So  rich  and  va- 
rious are  the  treasures,  with  wiiich  the  Greek  awd 
Koman  m  riters  furnish  those,  who  have  enjoyed  i^^Q 
advantages  of  a  classioa!  eduoatiwi. 


wii  a-.  . 


,,  CHAP.  II. 

4'  NARRA  TIVE  PIECES, 

,j  SECTION  I. 

*  CARAZAN'S  VISION; 

i      Or,  Social  Love  and  Bimcjicence  recommended. 

r: 

,  Grasp  the  whole  world  of  reason,  life,  and  sense* 

In  one  close  system  of  benevolence  ; 
Happier,  as  kindlier,  in  whate'er  degree, 
J  A  height  of  bliss  is  haiglit  of  chanty.  vope. 

'<,':  ' 

Carazajj,  the  merchant  of  Bagdat,  >vas  eminent 

throughout  all  the  east  for  his  avarice  auti  his  wealth  : 

r  His  origin  was  obscure  as  tliat  of  the  spark,  which  hy 

-  >the  collision  of  steel  and  adamant  is  struck  out  of  dark- 
ness; and  the  patient  labour  of  persevering  diligence 

,  L'alone  had  made  him  rich.     It  was  remembered,  that 

-  when  he  Mas  indigent  he  was  thought  tolje  generous ; 
/.and  he  was  still  acknowledged  to  be  inflexibly  just. 
•!iBut  whether  in  his  dealings  uith  men  he  discovered  a 
-^perfidy  which  tempted  him  to  put  his  trust  in  gold  ; 
,  or  whether,  in  proportion  as  he  accumulated  wealth, 
» he  discovered  his  own  importance  by  increase,  Cara- 

zan  prized  it  more  as  ht  used  it  less  :  He  gradually 
lost  the  inclination  to  do  good  as  he  acquired  the  pow- 

•  er;  and  as  the  hand  of  time  scattered  snow  upon  his 
Jiead,  the  freezing  influence  extended  to  his  bosom. 

But  though  the  door  of  Carazan  was  never  opened 
by  hospitality,  nor  his  hand  by  compassion,  yet  fear  led 
.  him  constantly  to  the  mosque  at  the  stated  hours  of 
i  prayer:  He  performed  all  the  rites  of  devotion  with 
vthe  most  scrupulous  punctuality,  and  had  thrice  paid 
.  liis  vows  at  the  temple  of  the  prophet.     That  devotion 
which  rises  from  the  love  of  God,  and  necessarily  in- 
cludes the  love  of  juan,  as  it  connects  gratitude  with 
idbeneijcence,  and  exajts  that  which  was  mortal  to  di- 


S6  Narratioe  Pieces^ 

vine,  confers  a  new  dignity  upon  goodnes?,  and  is  tlic 
object  not  only  ofaiuction  but  reverence.  On  the 
contrary,  the  devotion  of  the  selfish,  whether  it  be 
thought  to  avert  the  punishment  which  every  one 
wishes  to  be  inflicted,  or  to  insure  it  by  the  compll-  jj 
cation  of  hypocrisy  with  guilt,  never  fails  to  excite  in-  1| 
dignation  and  abhorrence,  Carazan,  therefore,  when 
he  had  locked  his  door,  and,  turning  round  with  a 
look  of  circcinispcctive  suspicion,  proceeded  to  the 
raosque,  was  followed  by  every  eye  with  silent  ma- 
lignity; the  poor  suspended  their  supplications  when 
be  passed  by ;  though  he  wzis  known  by  every  man, 
yet  no  man  saluted  him. 

Such  had  long  been  the  life  of  Cararan,  and  such 
was  the  character  he  had  acquired,  when  notice  was^ 
given  by  proclamation  that  he  was  removed  to  a  mag- 
nificent  building  in  the  centre  of  the  city,  that  Lis  ta-  , 
ble  should  be  spread  for  the  hungry,  and  that  the* 
stranger  should  be  welcome  to  his  bed.  The  niultii 
tilde  soon  rushed  like  a  torrent  to  tlie  door,  where 
they  beheld  him  dj.  tributing  bread  to  the  hungry,  and' 
apparel  to  \hc  naked  ;  his  eye  softened  with  compas- 
sion and  his  cheek  glowing  with  delight.  Every  one 
gazed  with  wonder  at  the  prodigy  ;  and  the  murmur 
of  innumerable  voices  increasing  like  the  scunil  of  ap- 
proaching thunder,  Carazan  beckoned  with  his  hand  ; 
attention  suspended  the  tumult  in  a  moment,  and  he 
thus  gratified  the  curiosity,  which  procured  him  au- 
dience : — 

♦'  To  Him  who  touches  the  mountains  and  they 
smoke,  the  Almighty  and  the  most  Merciful,  be  ever- 
lasting honour !  He  hath  ordained  sleep  to  be  the  mi- 
nister of  instruction,  as  his  visions  have  reproved  me 
in  the  night.  As  I  was  sitting  alone  in  my  h^iram,  with 
my  lamp  burning  before  rae,  computing  the  pioduct  of 
my  merchandise,  and;  exulting  in  the  increase  of  my 
wealtli,  I  fell  into  a  deep  sleep,  and  the  hand  of  hira 
who  dwells  in  the  third  heaven  was  upon  nie.  I  be- 
held the  angel  of  death  coming  forward  like  a  whirl- 
wind, and  he  smote  me  before  I  could  deprecate  the 


Narrative  Pieces.  '  '93 

blow.    At  the  same  moment  I  found  myseii" lifted  from 
the  ground,  and  transported  with  astouif-liingrapidily 
lhroui;Ji  tJie  icgicns  of  the  ah*.     The  earth  was  con- 
tracted to  an  atom  between  ;  and  the  stars  glowed 
,  round  me  with  a  lustre  that  obscured  the  sun.     The 
I  gate  of  Paradise  m  as  now  in  siglit ;  and  I  m  as  inter- 
)  cepted  by  a  sudden  briglitness,  which  no  human  eye 
i  could  behold  :  The  irrecoverable  sentence  was  now  to 
k  be  pronounced  :  my  day  of  probation  was  past,  and 
\  from  the  evil  of  my  life  nothing  could  betaken  aAvaj% 
i  nor  could  any  thing  be  added  to  the  good.     "When  I 

i  reflected  that  my  lot  for  eternity  was  cast,  Mhich  not 
all  the  powers  of  nature  could  reverse,  my  confidence 
totally  forsook  me;  and  Avhiie  I  stood  trembling  and 
ij  silent,  covered  with  confusion  and  chilled  with  licrror, 
I  J  was  thus  addressed  by  the  radiance  that  flamed  be- 
\  fore  me  : — 

\  "  Carazan,  thy  M'orship  has  not  been  accepted,  be- 
li  cause  it  was  not  prompted  by  the  love  of  God  ;  nei- 
I  ther  can  thy  righteousness  be  rewarded,  because  it  Avas 
not  produced  by  the  Icve  of  man ;  For  thy  own  sake 
only  hast  thou  rendered  to  every  man  his  due ;  and 
thou  hast  approached  the  Almigkty  only  for  lliyself. 
Thou  hast  not  looked  up  "with  gratitude,  nor  round 
thee  with  kindness.  Around  thee  tho.u  hast,  indeed 
beheld  vice  and  folly ;  but  if  vice  and  folly  could  jus- 
tify thy  parsimony,  would  they  not  condemn  the  boun- 
ty of  Heaven  ?  If  not  upon  the  foolish  and  the  vicious 
where  shall  the  sun  diiluse  his  light,or  the  clouds  distil 
their  devv  ?  where  shall  Ihc  lips  of  the  Spring  breathe 
fragrance,  or  the  hand  of  Autunm  diJfuse  plenty  ? 
Jlemembcr,  Carazm,  that  thou  hast  shut  compassion 
from  thy  heart,  and  grasped  tiiy  treasures  with  a  hand 
of  iron  :  Thou  hast  lived  for  tiiyself;  and,  therefore, 
henceforth  for  ever  thou  shalt  subsist  alone.  From 
the  light  of  heaven,  and  from  the  society  of  all  Ijeings, 
shalt  thou  be  driven  ;  solitude  shall  i)rotract  the  liii- 
gcring  hours  of  eternity,  and  darkness  aggravate  the 
horrors  of  despair." 


9i  Narrative  Pieces.  m 

"  At  this  moment  I  was  driven,  l^  some  secret 
and  irresistible  power,  tljrouejh  tl;e  glowing;  system 
of  creaiion,  and  passed  innumprabic  worlds  in  a  mo- 
ment. As  I  approAched  the  verge  of  nature,  I  per- 
ceived the  shadoAvs  of  total  and  boundless  vacuity 
deepen  before  me,  a  dreadful  region  of  eternal  si- 
lence, solitude,  and  darkness }  Unutterable  horror 
seized  me  at  the  prospect,  and  this  exclamation  burst 

from  me  with  all  the  veliemence  of  despair Oh! 

that  I  had  been  doomed  forever  to  the  common  recep- 
tacle of  impenitence  and  guilt  !  There  society  nould' 
have  alleviated  the  torments  of  despair  ^  and  the  ra^c  . 
offire  could  not  have  excluded  the  comfort  oj  light. 
Or,  if  I  had  been  condemned  to  reside  on  a  comet,  that 
■would  return  but  once  in  a  thousand  years  to  the  re- 
gions  of  light  and  life  ;  the  hope  of  these  periods f 
however  distant,  mould  cheer  me  in  the  dreary  inter- 
val of  cold  and  darkness,  and  the  vicissitude  would  di- 
vide eternity  into  time. 

"  While  this  thought  passed  over  ray  mind,  I  lost 
sight  of  the  remotest  star,  and  the  last  glimmering  of 
light  was  quenched  into  utter  darkness.  The  ago- 
nies of  despair  increa?ed  every  moment,  as  every  mo- 
ment augmented  my  distance  from  the  last  habitable 
world.  I  rctlected  with  intolerable  anguish,  that 
when  ten  thousand  thoasand  years  had  carried  me 
beyond  the  reach  of  all  but  thai  Power  who  fills  infi- 
nitude, I  should  still  look  foi-ward  into  an  immense 
abyss  of  darkness,  through  which  I  should  still  drive 
witJiout  succour  and.  without  society,  farther  and  far- 
ther still,  for  ever  and  ever.  I  then  stretched  out 
my  hands  towards  the  regions  of  existence,  with  an 
emotioM  that  awakened  me.  Thus  have  I  been 
taught  to  estimate  society,  like  rvery  other  bles^•ing, 
by  its  loss.  My  heart  is  warm  d  to  liberality  ;  and 
I  am  zealou  to  communicate  the  happiness  which  I 
feel,  to  those  from  whom  it  is  derived;  for  the  socie- 
ty of  one  wretch,  whom  in  the  pride  of  prosperity  I 
would  have  spurmd  from  my  door,  would,  in  the 
dreadful  soiitiile  to  which  I  was  condemned,  luive- 


Narrative  Pieces.  9S 

been  more  Wghly  prized  than  the  gold  of  Africa,  or 
the  gems  of  Golconda." 

At  this  reflection  upon  his  dream,  Garazan  became 
suddenly  silent,  and  looked  upwards  in  an  ecstacy  of 
gratitude  and  devotion.  The  multitude  was  struck 
at  once  with  the  precept  and  the  example;  and  the 
caliph,  to  whom  the  event  was  related,  that  he  might 
be  liberal  beyond  the  power  of  gold,  commanded  it 
to  be  recorded  for  the  beneiit  of  posterity. 


SECTION  II. 
ABDALLAH  and  SAB  AT. 

Two  Mahometans  of  ^Vrabia,  persons  of  considera- 
tion  in  their  own  country,  have  been  lately  converted 
to  the  Christian  faith.  One  of  them  has  already  suf- 
fered martyrdom,  and  the  other  is  now  engaged  in 
translating  the  scriptures,  and  in  concerting  pJan^  for 
the  conversion  of  his  countrymen.  The  name  of  the 
mart)-r  was  Abdallah,  and  the  name  of  the  other  wlio 
is  now  translating  the  scriptures,  is  Sabat;  or,  as  he 
is  called  since  his  Christian  baptism,  Nathaniel  Sa- 
bat.— Sabat  resided  in  my  liouse  some  time  liefore  I 
left  India,  and  I  had  from  his  own  mouth  tjie  cliief 
part  of  the  account  which  I  shall  now  give  you.  Some 
particulars  1  liad  from  others.  His  conversion  took 
place  after  the  martyrdom  of  Abdallah,  *'  to  whose 
death  "  he  was  consenting  ;"  and  he  related  the  cir- 
cimistance  to  me  with  many  tears. 

Abdallah  and  Sabat  were  intimate  friends,  iind  be- 
ing young  men  of  family  in  Arabia,  they  agreed  to 
travel  together,  and  to  visit  foreign  countries.  They 
were  both  zealous  jMahometans.  Sabat  is  son  of 
Ibrahim  Sabat,  a  noble  family  of  the  line  of  Ikni- 
Sabat,  who  trace  tht^ir  pedigree  to  JMahomet.  The 
two  friends  left  Aral^ia,  after  paying  tiicir  adorations 


00  Nurrafhc  Pieces. 

i\i  the  tomb  of  their  prophet  at  I\Iccca,  and  travelled 
tlirough  l\'r€!a,  and  thence  to  Cabul.  Abdallali  was 
appointed  to  an  office  ot  state  under  Zemaun  Shah, 
king'  of  Cabal  ;  and  Sabat  left  him  there,  and  pro- 
ceeded on  a  tour  throu,:^ii  I'artary. 

While  Abdallah  remained  at  Cabul,  he  was  con- 
verted to  the  Christian  faith  by  tb.e  perusal  of  a  Bible 
Cas  is  supposed)  belonging-  to  a  Christian  from  Arme- 
nia, then  residing  at  Cabul.  In  the  Maliometan 
states,  it  is  deaf  h  iur  a  man  of  rank  to  become  a  Chris- 
tian.— Ai)dallah  endeavoured  i'or  a  time  to  cunceal  his 
conversion,  but  finding-  it  no  longer  possible,  he  de- 
ermined  to  llee  to  some  of  the  Christian  churclies 
near  the  Caspian  sea.  He  accordingly  left  Calml  in 
disguise,  and  had  gained  the  great  city  of  Bochara, 
in  Tartary,  nhen  he  was  met  in  the  streets  of  that  ci- 
ty by  Jiis  friend  Sabat,  who  innicdiat-.-ly  recognized 
him.  Sabat  had  lieaid  of  h'n-'  conversion  and  lligiit, 
and  was  fiJl-d  m ith  indignation  at  his  conduct.  Ai> 
dallah  knew  his  danger,  and  threw  himself  at  the  feet 
of  Sab>it.  He  conftssed  that  he  was  a  Christian, 
and  implored  him,  i)y  the  sacred  tie  of  their  former 
fri5ndshi[),  to  let  him  escape  A^■ith  his  life.  *'  Bui, 
sir,"  said  Sabat,  when  relating  the  story  liimself,  "  I 
hddvo piti/.     I  caused  my  soryanls  to  seize  him,  and 

1  delivered  him  up  to  Jlorad  Shah,  king  of  uochara. 
He  was  sentenced  to  die,  and  a  herald  went  through 
the  city  of  Bociiara,  announcing  the  time  of  his  ex- 
ecution. Ail  inmiense  multitude  attended,  and  the 
chief  m.en  of  the  city.  I  also  weui  and  stood  near  to 
Aijdallali.  He  was  offered  his  life,  if  he  wmdd  ab- 
jure Clu'ist,  the  executioner  standing  by  him  with  iii^ 
sword  in  his  hand.  '  No,'  said  lie  (as  if  the  propor- 
tion were  impossible  to  be  complied  with),  I  ca:inot 
a!)jure  Christ.'  Then  one  of  his  hands  was  cut  oiT 
at  the  wrist.  He  stood  firm,  his  arm  hanging  by  hiS' 
side  \vith  but  little  motion.  A  physician,  l>y  desire  of 
the  king,  oilered  to  heal  the  w  ound.  if  he  would  re- 
cant. He  made  nn  an?wer,  !)ut  looked  up  stedfd- 
ly  tov/ards  heaven,  like  Stephen  the  first  martyr,  h. 


Narrative  Pieces.  97 

eyes  streoming  \\i\\\  tears.  He  did  not  look  with  an- 
ger towards  me.  He  looked  at  me,  }>ut  it  was  be- 
nignly, and  Avitli  the  countenance  of  forgiveness. 
His  other  hand  w  as  then  cut  off.  But  sir,'  said  Sa- 
bat,  in  his  imperfect  EngUsh,  *  he  never  changed,  he 
never  changed.  And  when  he  bowed  his  head  to  re- 
'cive  the  blow  of  death,  all  Bochara  seemed  to  say, 
■  What  new  thing  is  this  T 

Sabat  had  indulged  the  hope  that  Abdallah  would 
have  recanted  when  he  was  offered  !iis  life  ;  but  when 
iie  saw  that  his  friend  was  dead,  lie  resigned  himself 
to  grief  and  remorse.  He  travelled  from  place  to 
])lace,  seeking  re?t,  and  finding  none.  At  last  he 
thought  he  would  visit  India.  He  accordingly  came 
to  Madras  ab-  ut  five  years  ago.  Soon  after  his  arrival, 
iiC  Mas  appointed  by  the  Englihli  government  a  Mufti, 
or  expounder  of  IMahometan  law;  his  great  learning, 
and  respectable  stalionin  his  own  country,  rendering 
him  eminently  qualified  for  that  office.  And  now  the 
period  of  his  own  conversion  drew  near.  While  he 
'was  at  Visagapatam,  in  the  northern  Circars, exercis- 
ing his  professional  duties,  Providence  brought  in  his 
way  a  Ne\\- Testament  in  Arabic.  He  read  it  with 
deep  thought,  the  Koran  lying  before  him.  He  com- 
pared them  together,  and  at  length  the  truth  of  the 
word  of  God  fell  on  his  mind,  as  he  expressed  it,  like 
a  flood  of  light.  Soon  afterwards  he  proceeded  to 
IMadras,  a  journey  of  300  miles,  to  seek  Christian  bap- 
tism ;  and  having  made  a  public  confcstion  of  his 
faith,  he  was  baptized  by  the  Rev.  Dr.  Kerr,  in  the 
English  church  at  that  place,  by  the  name  of  Natha- 
niel, in  the  twenty-seventh  year  of  his  age. 

Beingmow  desirous  to  devote  his  future  life  to  the 
glory  of  God,  he  resigned  his  secular  employ,  and 
<;ame  by  invitation  to  Bengal,  where  he  is  now  engag- 
ed in  traniating  the  scriptures  into  the  Persian  lan- 
guage. This  work  has  not  hitherto  been  executecl, 
for  want  of  a  ti-an?lator  of  sulhcicnt  ability.  The  Per- 
sian is  an  important  language  in  the  East,  being  the 
general  language  of  western  Asia,  particularly  among 


^  Xarraiivc  Pieces. 

the  higher  classes,  and  is  understood  from  Calcutta  to 
Damascus.  But  the  great  work  which  occupies  t!ie 
attention  of  this  noble  Aral)ian,  is  tfce  promulgation 
of  tlie  Gospel  among  his  own  countrymen  ;  and  from 
the  present  lluctuations  of  religious  opinion  in  Arabia, 
he  is  sanguine  in  liis  hopes  of  success.  His  first  Avork 
Is  entitled,  (Neama  Bcsharatin  HI  Arab!,)  "  Uappij 
yen's  for  Arabia'''' ;  written  in  the  Nabnttec,  or  com- 
mon dialect  of  the  country.  It  contains  an  eloquent 
and  argimientative  elucidation  of  the  truth  of  1  he  Gos- 
pel, with  copious  autlioritics  admitted  by  the  ?tIahom- 
etans  themselves,  and  particularly  by  the  Wahabians. ' 
And  prefixed  to  it,  is  an  account  of  the  conversion  of 
the  author,  and  an  appeal  to  the  members  of  his  well- 
known  family  in  Arabia,  for  the  truth  of  the  facts. 

Tlie  following  circumstance  in  the  history  of  Sabat 
ought  not  to  have  been  omitted.  'NVhen  his  family  in 
Arabia  had  heard  that  he  had  fallowed  the  example 
of  Abdallah,and  become  a  Christian,  they  dispatched 
his  brother  to  India,  (a  voyage  of  tuo  months,)  to  as- 
sassinate him.  While  Sabat  was  sitting  in  his  honse 
at  Visagapatam,  his  brother  presented  himself  in  the 
disguise  of  a  Faqueer,  or  beggar,  having  a  dagger  con- 
cealed under  his  mantle.  He  rus^hed  on  Sabat,  and 
wounded  him.  But  Sabat  seized  his  arm,  and  his 
Fervants  came  to  his  asr-istance.  He  then  recognized 
his  brother.  The  assassin  would  have  become  the 
victim  of  public  justice,  but  Sabat  interceded  for  his 
brother,  and  sent  him  home  in  peace,  with  letters  and 
presents  to  his  mother's  house  in  Arabia. 

The  conversion  of  Abdallah  and  Sabat  seem  to 
have  been  as  evidently  produced  by  the  Spirit  of  God, 
as  any  conversion  in  tlie  })rinntive  church.  Other  in- 
stances have  occurred  in  Arabia  of  a  similar  kind,  and 
on  the  very  borders  of  Palestine  itself.  These, are 
like  the  s-^litary  notices  which,  in  other  nations,  have 
announced  the  approacli  of  general  illumination. 
John  Huss,  and  Jerom  of  Prague,  were  not,  perhaps, 
more  talked  of  in  Europe,  than  Abdallah  and  Sabat 
are  at  this  day,  in  Bucharia  and  Arabia. 


Narrative  Pieces.  9() 

SECTION  III. 

Character  of  a  Clergyman. 

I  WAS  vtry  mucfi  pleased,  in  my  last  visit  at  Colo- 
nel Caustic's  uitli  llie  appearance  and  the  deportment 
of  the  clergyman  of  his  parish,  who  was  a  frequent 
visitor  of  my  friend,  and  his  sister.  The  Colonel,  af- 
ter drawing-  his  character  in  a  very  favourable  way,, 
concluded  with  telling  me,  that  he  had  seen  some- 
thing of  the  world,  having  olliciated,  in  the  early  part 
of  his  life,  as  the  cha])lain  of  a  regiment.  To  this  cir- 
cumstance, I  confess,  1  was  inclined  to  impute  some 
of  the  Colonel's  predilection  in  his  favour ;  but  a  lit- 
tle acquaintance  with  him  convinced  me,  that  he  had 
done  the  good  man  no  more  than  justice  hi  his  eulogi- 
Um-  There  was  something  of  a  placid  dignity  in  his 
aspect ;  of  a  politeness,  not  of  form,  but  of  sentiment, 
in  his  manner ;  of  a  mildness,  undebased  by  llattery, 
in  his  conversation  equally  pleasing  and  respectable. 
He  had  now  no  family,  <is  ]\[iss  Caustic  informed  me, 
having  had  the  misfortune  to  lose  his  wife,  and  two 
children  many  years  ago  But  his  parishioners  are 
his  family,  said  she.  His  look  indeed  was  parental, 
with  something  above  the  cares,  but  not  the  charities 
of  this  world  ;  and  over  a  cast  of  seriousness,  and  per- 
haps melancholy,  that  seemed  to  l>e  reserved  for  him- 
self, there  was  an  easy  clicerfulness,  and  now  and  then 
a  gaiety,  that  spoke  to  tlie  innocent  pleasures  of  life,  a. 
language  of  kindness  and  indulgence. 

"  'Tis  the  religion  of  a  genlleman,"  said  Colonel 
Caustic. — '*  'Tis  the  religion  of  a  philosophep,"  said  I. 
— "  'Tis  something  more  useful  than  eithei;/'  said  his 
sister.  "  Did  you  know  his  labours  as  I  have  some- 
times occasion  to  do  1  The  composer  of  diiierences, 
the  promoter  of  peace  and  of  contentment ;  the  en- 
eourager  of  industry,  soliriety,  and  all  the  virtues 
that  make  society  prosperous  and  happy-  He  gives 
■*o   religion  a  certain  graciousness,  which  allures  to 


300  Narrative  Pieces. 

its  service,  yet  in  his  own  conduct  he  takes  less  indul- 
gence than  many  that  preach  its  terrors.  The  du- 
ties of  his  function  are  his  pleasure?,  and  his  doctrine 
is,  that  every  man  will  experience  the  same  thint;-, 
if  he  bring  his  mind  fairly  to  the  trial :  that  to  fill 
our  station  well,  is  in  every  station  to  be  happy." 

"  Tlie  great  and  wcaltliy,  I  have  heard  (iie  good 
man  say,"  continued  the  excellent  sister  of  my  friend, 
"  to  whom  refinement  and  fancy  open  a  thousand 
sources  of  delight,  do  not  make  the  proper  allowance 
for  the  inferior  rank  of  men.  That  rank  has  scarce 
any  exercise  of  mind  or  imagination  hut  one,  and  that 
one  is  religion ;  we  are  not  then  to  w  onder,  if  it  some- 
times wanders  into  the  gloom  of  superstition,  or  the 
"wilds  of  enthusiasm.  To  keep  this  principle  warm, 
but  pure,  to  teach  it  as  the  gospel  has  taught  it,  '  the 
mother  of  good  works,'  as  encouraging,  not  excusing 
our  duties,  the  guide  at  the  same  time,  and  the  sw  eet- 
ness  of  life :  to  dispense  this  sacred  treasure  as  the 
balm  of  distress,  the  cordial  of  disease,  the  conqueror 
of  death!  These  are  the  privileges  which  I  enjoy, 
which  I  hope  I  have  used  for  the  good  of  my  people  ; 
they  have  hitherto  shed  satisfaction  on  my  life,  and  I 
trust  will  smooth  its  close !" 

"  'Tis  the  religion  of  a  Christian!"  said  Miss 
Caustic.  Lounger. 


SECTION  IV. 

Religion  and  Superstition  contrasted. 

A  VISION. 

I  HAD  lately  a  very  remarkable  dream,  whicli  made 
80  strong  an  impression  on  me,  that  I  remember  eve- 
ry word  of  it ;  and  if  you  are  not  better  employed, 
you  may  read  the  relation  of  it  as  follows ; — 


Narrative  Ficccs.  iCi 

.  I  Ifiouglit  I  was  in  the  midst  of  a  very  entertaining 
set  of  c-ompan}',  and  extremely  delighted  in  attend- 
ing to  a  lively  conversation,  vvlien,  on  a  sudden,  I 
perceived  one  of  the  most  shocking  figures  that  ima- 
gination can  frame,  advancing  towards  me.  She  Avas 
dressed  in  black,  her  skin  was  contracted  into  a 
thousand  wrinkles,  her  eyes  deep  sunk  in  her  head, 
and  her  complexion  pale  and  livid  as  the  countenance 
of  death.  Her  looks  were  filled  w  ith  terror  and  un- 
relenting severity,  and  her  hands  armed  with  whips 
and  scorpions.  As  soon  as  she  came  near,  with  a  hor- 
rid frowttj  and  a  voice  tJiat  chillfd  my  very  blood, 
she  bade  me  follow  her.  I  obeyed,  and  she  kd  me 
through  rugged  paths,  beset  with  briers  and  thorns, 
into  a  deep  solitary  valley.  Wherever  she  passed,  the 
fading  verdure  withered  beneath  her  steps :  her  pes- 
tilential breath  infected  the  air  with  malignant  va- 
pour?, obscured  the  lustre  of  the  sun,  and  involved 
the  fair  face  of  heaven  in  universal  gloom.  Dismal 
bowlings  resounded  through  the  forest ;  from  every 
baleful  tree,  the  night  raven  uttered  his  dreadful  note ; 
and  the  prospect  was  filled  with  desolation  and  hor- 
or.  In  the  midst  of  this  tremendous  scene,  my  exe- 
:rable  guide  addressed  me  in  the  following  manner. 

"  Retire  with  me,  O  rash,  unthinking  mox'tal !  from 
the  vain  allurements  of  a  deceitful  world  ;  and  learn, 
that  pleas'ure  was  not  designed  the  portion  of  human 
life.  '  Man  was  born  to  mourn  and-  to  be  wretched. 
This  is  tlie  condition  of  all  below  the  stars :  and  who- 
ever endeavours  to  oppose  it,  acts  in  contradiction  to 
the  will  of  heaven.  Fly  then  from  the  fatal  enchant- 
ments of  youth  and  social  delight,  and  here  conse- 
crate the  solitary  hours  to  lamentation  and  woe.  Mi- 
sery is  the  duty  of  all  sublunary  beings;  and  every 
-enjoyment  is  an  oITence  to  the  Deity,  who  is  to  be 
■worshipped  only  by  the  mortification  of  every  sense 
of  pleasure,  and  the  everlasting  exercise  of  sighs  and' 
tears." 

This  melancholy  picture  of  life   quite  sunk  riy 
spirits,  and  seemed  to  annihilate  every  principle  of* 
1 2  TJBRARY 

UNIVERPTTY  OF  CATJFOR^ 


102  Narrative  Pieces* 

joy  within  nie.  1  tlirew  myself  beneath  a  blasted 
yew,  where  the  winds  blew  cold  and  dismal  round  my 
head,  and  dreadful  apprehensions  chilfed  my  heart. 
Here  1  resolved  to  lie  till  the  hand  of  death,  which 
I  impatiently  invoked,  should  put  an  end  to  the  mi- 
series of  a  life  so  deplorably  wretched.  In  this  sad 
situation,  I  espied  on  one  hand  of  me  a  deep  muddy 
river,  wliosc  heavy  waves  rolled  on  in  slow,  sullen 
murnmrs.  Here  I  determined  to  plunge ;  and  was 
just  upon  the  brink,  when  I  found  myself  suddenly 
drawn  back.  I  turned  about,  and  was  surprised  by 
the  sight  of  the  loveliest  object  I  had  evei  beheld. 
The  most  engaging  charms  of  youth  and  beauty  ap- 
peared in  all  her  form  ;  effulgent  glories  sparkled  in 
her  eyes,  and  their  awful  splendours  were  softened  Ijy 
the  gentlest  looks  of  compassion  and  peace.  At  lier 
approach,  the  frightful  spectre,  who  had  before  tor- 
mented me,  vanished  away,  and  with  her  all  the  hor- 
rors she  had  caused.  The  gloomy  clouds  brightened 
into  cheerful  sunshine,  the  groves  recovered  their  ver- 
dure, and  the  whole  region  looked  gay  and  blooming 
as  the  garden  of  Eden.  I  was  quite  transported  at 
this  unexpected  change,  and  reviving  pleasure  began 
to  gladden  my  thouglits ;  when,  with  a  look  of  inex- 
pressible sweetness,  my  beauteous  deliverer  thus  ut- 
tered her  divine  instructions. 

"  My  name  is  RiiLiciuN.  I  am  the  offspring  of 
Truth  and  Lovk,  and  the  parent  of  Benevolencb, 
Hope,  and  Joy.  That  monster,  from  whose  power 
I  have  freed  you,  is  called  SuPEitsTrnoN :  she  is  the 
child  of  Discontent,  and  her  followers  are  Fear 
and  Sorrow.  Thus,  different  as  we  are,  she  has  of- 
ten tiie  insolence  to  assame  my  name  and  character ; 
and  seduces  unhappy  mortals  to  think  us^  the  same, 
till  she,  at  length,  drives  them  to  the  borders  of  De- 
spair, that  dreadful  abyss  into  which  you  were  just 
going  to  sink. 

*'  Look  round,  and  survey  the  various  beauties  of 
the  globe,  Avhich  heaven  has  destined  for  the  seat  of 
the  human  race ;  and  consider  whether  a  world  thus 


Narrative  Ficces.  103 

f  xquisitely  framed,  could  be  meant  for  the  abode  of 
misery  and  pain.  For  what  end  has  the  lavish  hand 
of  Providence  diifused  innumerable  objects  of  de- 
light, but  that  all  might  rejoice  in  the  privilege  of  ex- 
istence, and  be  filled  with  gratitude  to  the  beneficent 
Author  of  it?  Thus  to  enjoy  the  blessings  he  has 
sent,  is  virtue  and  obedience ;  and  to  reject  them 
merely  as  means  of  pleasure,  is  pitiable  ignorance,  or 
absurd  perversencss.  Infinite  goodness  is  the  source 
of  created  existence.  The  proper  tendency  of  every 
rational  being,  from  the  highest  order  of  raptured  se- 
raphs, to  the  meanesti,rank  of  men,  is  to  rise  incessant- 
ly from  lower  degrees  of  happiness  to  higher.  They 
have  faculties  assigned  them  for  various  orders  of  de- 
lights." 

""  What !"  cried  I,  "  is  this  the  language  of  Reli- 
gion ?  Does  she  lead  her  votaries  through  flowery 
paths,  and  bid  them  pass  an  unlaborious  life  ?  Where 
are  the  painful  toils  of  virtuv,  the  mortifications  of 
penitents,  and  the  self  denying  exercises  of  saints  and 
heroes  ?" 

"  The  true  enjoyments  of  a  reasonable  being,"  an- 
s\vered  she  mildly,  "  do  not  consist  in  unbounded  in- 
dulgence, or  luxurious  ease,  in  the  tumult  of  passions, 
the  languor  of  indolence,  or  the  ilutter  of  liglit  amusc^ 
ments.  Yielding  to  immoral  pleasures,  corrupts  the 
rnind  ;  living  to  animal  and  trilling  ones,  debases  It : 
both  in  their  degree  disqualify  it  for  its  genuine 
good,  and  consign  it  over  to  wretchednes?.  Whoev- 
er would  be  really  hapi)y,  must  make  the  diligent 
and  regular  exercise  of  his  superior  pow'ers  his  chief 
attention ;  adoring  the  perfections  of  his  Maker,  ex- 
pressi;ig  good-will  to  his  fellow -creatures,  and  culti- 
vating inward  rectitude.  To  his  lower  faculties  he 
must  allow  such  gratifications  as  will,  by  refresh- 
ing, invigorate  his  nobler  pursuits.  In  the  regions 
inhabited  by  angelic  natures,  uniningled  felicity  for 
ever  bloonis ;  joy  flov/s  there  with  a  perpetual  and 
abundant  stream,  nor  needs  any  mound  to  check  its 
course.     Beings  conscious  of  a  frame  of  mind  origan- 


104  Narrative  Pieces. 

ally  diseased,  as  all  the  human  race  has  cause  to  be, 
must  usp  the  regimen  of  a  stricter  self-government. 
Whoever  has  been  guilty  of  voluntary  excesses,  must 
patiently  suhjuit  both  to  the  painful  workings  of  na- 
ture, and  needful  severities  of  medicine,  in  order  to 
his  cure.  Stiii  he  is  entitled  to  a  moderate  share  of 
whatever  alleviating  accommodations  this  fair  man- 
sion of  his  merciful  Parent  aifords,  consistent  w  ith 
his  recovery.  And,  in  proportion  as  this  recovery- 
advances,  the  liveliest  joy  will  spring  from  his  se- 
cret sense  of  an  anunded  and  improving  heart. — So 
far  fiom  the  horrors  of  despair  is  the  condition  even 
of  the  guilty. — Shudder,  poor  mortal,  at  the  thought 
of  the  gulph  into  whicli  thou  wast  just  now  going  to^ 
plunge. 

"  While  the  most  faulty  have  every  encouragement 
to  amend,  the  more  innocent  soul  will  be  supported- 
with  still  sweeter  cons'ilations  under  all  its  experience 
of  human  infirmities,  supported  by  the  gladdening- 
assurances,  that  every  sincere  endeavour  to  outgrow 
them,  shall  be  assisted,  accepted,  and  rewarded.  To 
such  a  one,  the  lowliest  self-abasement  is  but  a  deep- 
laid  foundation  for  the  most  elevated  hopes  -,  since- 
they  who  faithfully  examine  and  acknowledge  what 
they  are.  shall  be  enabled  under  my  conduct,  to  be-- 
come  what  they  desire.  The  christian  and  the  hero' 
are  inseparable ;  and  to  tlie  aspirings  of  unassuming, 
trust  and  filial  confidence  are  set  no  bounds.  To 
him  who  is  animated  with  a  view  of  obtaining  appro- 
bation from  the  Sovereign  of  the  universe,  no  didi- 
culty  is  insurmountable.  Secure,  in  this  pursuit  of 
every  needful  aid,  his  conflict  with  the  severest  pains 
and  trials,  is  little  more  that  the  vigorous  exercises 
of  a  mind  in  health.  His  patient  dependence  on  that 
Providence  which  looks  throuirh  ail  eternity,  his  silent 
resignation,  his  ready  accommodation  of  his  thoughts 
and  behaviour  to  its  inscrutable  ways,  are  at  once  the 
most  excellent  sort  of  self-denial,  and  a  source  of  the 
most  exalted  transports.  Society  is  the  true  sphere 
of  hum^D  virtue.     In  social,  active  lik,  difficultjee 


Narrative  Pieces,  lOo 

will  perpetually  be  met  with;  restraints  of  many 
kinds  will  be  necessary ;  and  studying  to  behave  right 
in  respect  of  these,  is  a  discipline  of  the  human  heart, 
useful  to  otliers,  and  improving  to  itself.  Sufiering  is 
no  duty,  but  where  it  is  necessary  to  avoid  guilt,  or  • 
to  do  good ;  nor  pleasure  a  crime,  but  where  it 
strengthens  the  influence  of  bad  inclinations,  or  less- 
(ns  tlie  general  activity  of  virtue.  Tlie  happiness 
allotted  to  man  in  his  present  state,  is  indeed  faiut 
and  low,  compared  with  his  immortal  prospects,  and 
noble  capacities :  but  yet  whatever  portion  of  it 
the  distributing  hand  of  lieaven  offers  to  each  indivi- 
dual, is  a  needful  support  and  refreshment  for  the  pre- 
sent moment,  so  far  as  it  may  not  hinder  the  attaining 
ef  his  final  destination. 

«  Return  then  with  me  from  continual  misery,  i& 
moderate  enjoyment,  and  grateful  alacrity :  return 
from  tlie  contracted  views  of  solitude,  to  the  proper 
duties  of  a  relative  and  dependent  being.  IIelicion: 
is  not  confined  to  cells  and  closets,  nor  restrained  to 
sullen  retirement.  These  are  the  gloomy  doctrines 
of  Superstition,  by  w  hich  she  endeavours  to  break 
those  chains  of  benevolence  and  social  afi'ections,  that 
link  the  welfare  of  every  particular  \vith  that  of  the 
whole.  Remember,  that  the  greatest  honour  you 
can  pay  the  Author  of  your  being,  is  a  behaviour  so 
cheerful  as  discovers  a  mind  satisfied  with  its  own  dis- 
pensations." 

Here  my  preceptress  paused  ;  and  I  was  going  to 
express  my  acknowledgments  for  her  discourse,  when 
a  ring  of  bells  from  the  neighbouring  village,  and 
the  new  risen  sun  darting  his  beams  J^hrough  ray  win- 
dows, awoke  me.  Carter, 


106  '    Narrative  Piccfs. 

SECTION  V. 

Oil  the  Justice  of  Frovidrnre. 

All  nature  is  but  art,  ullkno^vn  to  thee  ; 

All  cliuiice,  direction  wliich  thou  canst  not  see  ► 

All  disconl,  harmony  not  undeislood  ; 

All  partial  evil,  universal  good  ; 

And,  spite  of  pride,  in  errinp  reason's  spite. 

One  truth  is  clear -whatever  ig,  is  right.  pope. 

BozALDAB,  Caliph  of  Egypt,  had  dwelt  securely 
foijmany  years  in  the  silken  pavilions  of  pleasure,  and 
had  every  morning  anointed  his  head  with  the  oil  of 
gladnegs,  when  his  only  son  Aborani,  for  whom  he 
had  crowded  his  treasures  with  gold,  extended  his 
dominions  with  conquests,  and  secured  them  with 
impregnable  fortresses,  was  suddenly  wounded,  as  he 
■was  hunting,  av  ith  an  arrow  from  an  unknown  hand^ 
and  expired  in  the  field. 

Bozaldab,  in  the  distraction  of  grief  and  despair,, 
refused  to  return  to  his  palace,  and  retired  to  the 
gloomiest  grotto  in  the  neighbouring  mountains  :  He 
there  rolled  himself  in  the  dust,  tore  away  the  hairs 
of  his  hoary  head,  and  dashed  the  cup  of  consolation, 
that  Patience  offered  him,  to  the  ground.  He  sufler- 
cd  not  his  minstrels  to  approach  his  presence ;  but 
listened  to  the  screams  of  the  melancholy  birds  of 
midnight,  that  flit  through  the  solitary  vaults  and 
echoing  chambers  of  the  pyramitls.  "  Can  titat  God 
be  benevolent,"  he  cried,  "  who  thus-wounds  the  soul, 
as  from  an  ambush,  with  unexpected  sorrows,  and 
crushes  his  creatures  in  a  moment  with  irremediai)l€ 
calamity  ?  Ye  lying  Imans,  prate  to  us  no  more  of  the 
justice,  of  the  kintincss  of  an  ail-directing  and  alMov- 
ing  Providence !  He,  w  hom  ye  pretend  reigns  in  hea- 
ven, is  so  far  from  pi'otecting  the  miserable  sons  of 
men,  that  lie  perpetually  delights  to  blast  the  sweetest 
flowerets  in  the  garden  of  hope,  and,  like  a  malignant 
giantj  to  beat  do\\'n  in  his  anger,  the  strongest  tovvws. 


Narrative  Pieces.  IQl 

i;f  happiiies?.  If  this  Being  possessed  the  goodness 
and  the  power  Avith  which  flattering  priests  have  in- 
vested him,  he  would  doulitless  l>e  inchned  and  ena- 
bled to  banish  tiiose  evils  whicli  render  the  world  a 
dungeon  of  distress,  a  vale  of  vanity  and  woe — I  wilt 
continue  in  it  no  longer  .'" 

At  this  moment  he  furiously  raised  his  hand, 
which  Despair  had  armed  with  a  dagger,  lo  strike 
'  deep  into  liis  bosom;  when  suddenly  thick  flaslies  of 
lightning  shot  through  the  cavern,  and  a  being  of 
more  than  human  beauty  and  magnitmie,  arrayed 
in  azure  robes,  crowned  with  amarinth,  and  waving 
a  branch  of  palm  in  his  right  hand,  arrested  the  arm 
of  tlie  trejubling  and  astcniphed  C  aii];h,  and  said, 
with  a  majestic  smile,  "  Follow  me  to  the  top  of  this 
mountain.' 

"  Look  from  hence,"  said  the  awftd  conductor :  '<  I 
am  Caloc,  tlie  angel  of  peace  -,  look  from  hence  into 
the  valley." 

Bozaldab  opened  liis  eyes,  and  beheld  a  l)arren, 
sultry,  and  solitary  i«Jand,  in  the  midst  of  which  sat  a 
pale,  meagre,  and  gliastly  figure:  It  was  a  merchant 
just  perishnig  with  famine,  and  lamenting  that  lie 
could  find  neither  \\\\d  berries  nor  a  single  spring  in 
this  forlorn,  uninhabited  desai  t  ;  and  begging  tiie  pro- 
tection of  Heaven  against  the  tygers  that  would  now 
certainly  destroy  him,  since  he  had  consumed  tlie 
last  fuel  he  had  collected  to  make  nightly  fires  to  af- 
fright tliDti.  He  then  cast  a  casket  of  jewels  on  the 
sajid,  as  trilies  of  no  use;  and  crept  fce])le  and  trem- 
l)ling  t )  an  eminence,  wh'-re  he  was  accustomed  to  sit 
every  ev;  ning,  to  w  itch  the  setting  sun,  and  give  a 
sigml  to  rrny  ship  that  might  happily  approach  the 
island. 

"  Inhabitant  of  heavc)^,"  cried  Bozildab,  "  suffer 
not  tius  wretch  to  perish  ()y  the  fury  of  wild  beasts." 
"  Peace,"  said  the  angel,  "  ard  oljserve." 

He  looked  again,  and  beheld  a  vessel  arrive  at  the 
desolate  isle.  What  words  can  paint  th»  rapture  of 
the  starving  merciiant,  wlun  the  captain  olfered  to 


108  Narrative  riecei>. 

Iranppoit  liini  to  his  native  country,  if  he  would  it 
\rard.  him  with  half  the  jewels  of  his  casket.  No 
:ooner  liad  this  pitiful  commander  received  the  sti- 
pulated sum,  than  he  held  a  consultation  Avith  liis 
crew,  and  they  agreed  to  seize  the  remaining  jewels, 
and  leave  the  nnliappy  exile  in  the  same  helpless  and 
Jamentahle  condition  in  v.hich  they  discovered  him. 
He  wept  and  trembled,  intreated,  and  implored  in 
vain. 

"  Will  Heaven  permit  such  injustice  to  be  practis- 
ed?" exclaimed  Boz^ldab.  «  Look  again,"  said  the 
angel,  "  and  behold  the  very  ship  in  which,  short- 
sighted as  thou  art,  thou  wit-hedst  the  merchant 
mii;ht  embark,  dashed  in  pieces  on  a  rock;  Dost  thou 
not  hear  the  cries  of  the  sinking  sailors  ?  Presume 
not  to  direct  the  Governour  of  the  universe  in  the  dis- 
posal of  events.  The  man  -whom  thou  hast  pitied 
shall  be  tiikcn  from  this  dreary  solitude,  but  not  by 
tlie  method  thou  would.st  prescribe.  His  vice  is  ava- 
rice, by  which  he  became  not  onJy  abominable  but 
wretch'ed  ;  he  fdi'cif  d  some  mighty  charm  in  wealth, 
which,  like  wand  of  Atxiiel,  would  gratify  every 
wish,  and  obviate  evi-ry  ftar.  This  wealth  he  has  now 
been  taught  not  only  to  despise  but  abhor :  He  cast 
his  jewels  upon  the  sand,  and  confessed  them  to  be 
useless ;  he  Oifered  part  of  them,  to  the  mariners,  and 
])erceived  them  to  be  pernicious ;  he  has  now  learned, 
that  they  are  rendered  useful  or  vain,  good  or  evil, 
only  by  the  siiu.iti':>n  and  temper  of  the  possessor. 
Happy  ifi  he  whom  distress  has  taught  wisdom!  But 
turn  tliine  eyes  to  another  and  more  interesting  scene." 
The  caliph  instantly  l^eheld  a  magnificent  palace, 
adorned  with  statues  of  hi"^  ancestors  wrought  in  jas- 
l)er;  the  ivory  dor)rs  of  which,  turning  on  hinges  of 
the  gold  of  Golconda,  discovered  a  throne  of  dia- 
monds, surrounded  by  the  rajahs  of  fifty  nations,  and 
Avilh  ambassadors  in  various  habits,  and  of  diilereiit 
complexions ;  on  which  sat  Aboram,  the  much  la- 
mented son  of  Bozaldab,  and  by  his  side  a  fair  priii* 
cess. 


Karraiivc  Pieces.  100 

'<  Gracious  Alia ! — It  is  my  son  !"  cried  the  caliph ; 
**  O  iet  aie  hold  him  to  my  heart !"  "  Thou  canst  not 
grasp  an  unsubstantial  vision,"  replied  the  angel:  "  I 
am  now  shou  ing  thee  what  would  have  been  the  des- 
tiny of  thy  son,  had  he  continued  longer  on  the  earth." 
'<  And  A\  hy,"  returned  Bozaldab,  "  why  was  he  not 
sufTcred  to  l)e  a  witness  ot  so  much  felicity  and  pow- 
er ?"  "  Consider  the  sequel,"  replied  he  that  dwells  in 
i  he  fifth  heaven.  Bozaldab  looked  earnestly,  and  saw 
the  countenance  of  his  son,  on  which  he  had  been  used 
to  behold  the  placid  smile  of  simplicity,  and  the  vi- 
vid blushes  of  health,  now  distorted  with  rage,  and 
now  lixed  in  the  insensibility  of  drunkenness;  it  was 
again  animated  with  disdain,  it  became  pale  with  ap- 
])rehen?ion,  and  appeared  to  be  withered  with  intem- 
perance ;  his  hands  were  stained  with  blood,  and  he 
trembled  by  turns  with  fury  and  terror.  The  palace, 
so  lately  ?hining  witli  oriental  j)omp,  changed  sudden- 
ly into  the  cell  of  a  dungeon,  where  his  son  lay  stretch- 
ed out  on  a  cold  pavement,  gagged  and  bound,  and 
his  eyes  put  out. — Soon  after  he  perceived  the  favour- 
ite sultana,  who  Ijefore  was  seated  i)y  his  side,  enter 
M  ith  a  l)0wl  of  poison,  which  she  compelled  Aboram 
to  drink,  and  afterwards  married  the  successor  to  his 
throne. 

"  Happy,"  said  Caloc,  "  is  he  whom  Providence  has 
\vj  the  angel  of  death  snatched  from  guilt ;  from  v/hom 
that  power  is  Avithheld,  which,  if  ho  had  possessed, 
\\  ould  have  accumulated  Upon  himself  yet  greater  mi- 
sery than  it  could  upon  others." 

"  It  is  enougli,"  cried  Bozaldab :  "  I  adore  the  in- 
rcrutablc  schemes  of  Omniscience!-- — From  v.hat 
dreadful  evil  has  my  son  been  rescued,  bv  a  death 
■which  I  ra-])Iy  bewailed  as  unfortunate  and  prema- 
ture! a  death  of  innocence  and  peace,  Mhich  has 
l)lessed  his  memory  on  earth,  and  transmitted  his  spi- 
rit to  tiie  skies." 

"  Cast  away  the  dagger,"  replied  the  lieavenly  mes- 
sejiger,  "  which  tliou  wast  preparing  to  plunge  into 
thine  own  heart.   Exchange  complaint  for  sHcnce,  and 
K 


'10  Narrative  Pieces. 

doiilit  for  adoration.  Can  a  mortal  look  down,  wiih- 
out  giddiness  and  stupefaction,  into  the  vast  abyss  of 
Eternal  WiHloni  ?  Can  a  inind  that  sees  not  infinitely, 
perfectly  comprehend  any  thing-  amongst  an  infinity 
uf  objects  naturally  relative  ?  Can  the  channels  which 
thou  commandest  to  be  cut  to  receive  the  annual  inun- 
dation of  the  Nile,  contain  the  waters  of  the  ocean  ? 
Kcniember,  that  perfect  happiness  cannot  l^e  conferred 
on  a  creature  ;  for  perfect  happiness  is  an  attribute  as 
incommunicable  as  perfect  power  and  eternity." 

The  angel,  while  he  was  thus  speaksng,  stretched  out 
his  pinions  to  fly  back  to  the  empyreum,  and  the  tlut- 
tcr  of  his  wings  was  like  the  rushing  of  a  cataract. 


SECTION  VI. 

A  Ecvierv  of  Life. 


The  elapsed   periods   of  life  acquire  importance 
from  the  prospect  of  its  continuance.     The  smallest 
thing  becomes  respectable  ^vheu  regarded  as  the  coni- 
menceratnt  of  what  was  advanced,  or  is  advancing, 
into  magnificence.     The  first  rude  settlement  of  llo- 
niulus  would  have  been  an  insignificent  circumstance, 
and  might  justly  have  sunk  into  oblivion,  if  Komi 
had  not  at  length  commanded  the  world.     The  littl 
rill,  near  the  source  of  one  of  the  great  American  r: 
vers,  is  an  interesting  object  to  tlie  traveller  who 
apprised,  as  he  steps  across  it,  or  \valks  a  few  mil 
along  its  1)anks,  that  this  is  the  stream  which  runs 
far,  and  which  gradually  swells  into  so  immoise 
ilood.     So,  while  I  anticipate  the  endless  progress  of 
life,  and  wonder  through  -what  unknown  scenes  it  is 
to  take  its  course,  its  past  years  lose  tliat  character  r.i" 
vanity  which  would  seem  to  belong  to  a  train  of  fleet- 
ing, perishing  moments,  and  I  see  them  assumine' 
the  dignity  of  a  commencing  eternity.     In  them   '■ 


Narrative  Pieces.  Ill 

have  begun  to  be  that  conscious  existence  u  liich  I  am 
to  be  through  infinite  duration  ;  and  I  feel  a  strange 
emotion  of  cariosity  about  this  little  life  in  which  I 
am  setting  out  on  such  a  progress ;  I  cannot  be  content 
without  an  accurate  sketch  of  the  vvindings  thus  far 
of  a  stream  which  is  to  bear  me  on  forever.  I  try  to 
imagine  how  it  will  be  to  recollect,  at  a  far  distant 
j^oint  of  my  era,  what  I  was  when  here ;  and  I  wish 
if  it  were  possible,  to  retain,  as  I  advance,  the  whole 
course  of  my  existence  within  the  scope  of  clear  re- 
jection ;  to  fix  in  my  mind  so  very  strong  an  idea  of 
^vhat  I  have  been  in  this  original  |)eriod  of  my  time 
that  I  shall  most  completely  possess  this  Idea  in  ages 
too  remote  for  calculation. 

The  review  becomes  still  more  important,  when  I 
learn  the  influence  which  this  first  part  of  the  progress 
M  ill  have  on  the  happiness  or  misery  of  the  next. 

One  of  the  greatest  difficulties  in  the  way  of  execut- 
ing the  proposed  task  will  have  been  caused  by  the 
extreme  deficiency  of  that  self-observation,  which,  to 
any  extent,  is  no  common  employment,  either  of  youth 
or  any  later  age.  Men  realize  their  existence  in  the 
surrounding  objects  that  act  upon  them,  and  form  the 
interests  of  self,  rather  tlian  in  that  very  self,  that  in- 
terior being,  which  is  thus  acted  upon.  So  that  this 
being  itself,  with  its  thoughts  and  feelings,  as  distinct 
fiom  the  objects  of  those  thoughts  and  feelings,  but 
rarely  occupies  its  own  deep  and  patient  attention. 
]\Ien  carry  their  minds  as  they  carry  their  watches, 
content  to  be  ignorant  of  the  mechanism  of  their 
luovements,  and  satisfied  with  attending  to  the  little 
exterior  circle  of  things,  to  which  the  passions,  like  in- 
dexes, are  pointing.  It  is  surprising  to  see  how  little 
jelf-knowledge  a  person  not  watchfully  observant  of 
himself  may  have  gained  in  the  whole  course  of  an  ac- 
i.ive  or  even  an  inquisitive  life.  He  may  have  lived  al- 
most an  age,  and  traversed  a  continent,  minutely  ex- 
amining its  curiosities,  and  interpreting  the  half-ob- 
I  iterated  characters  on  its  monuments,  unconscious 
the  while  of  a  process  operating  on  \\h  own^mind  to 


1J2  KarralL'c  Pieces. 

jpipresE  or  to  erase  cliaracteristfcs  of  much  more  im- 
portance to  Ijini  than  all  the  figured  brass  or  marble 
'^tliat  tlie  worl'.l  CDntains.  After  having  explored  ma- 
ny a  cavern  or  dark  ruinous  avenue,  he  may  have  left 
undetected  a  dark"r  recess  in  his  character.  lit;  may 
have  conversed  with  many  people  in  diflereht  lan- 
guager,  on  numberless  sul)j(  cts ;  but  having  neglected 
those  conversations  -with  hmiself  by  which  his  whole 
moral  being  thould  have  I>een  kept  continually  dis- 
closed to  his  view,  he  is  better  qualified  perliaps  to 
describe  the  intreagues  of  a  foreign  court,  or  the  pro- 
gress of  a  foreign  trade;  to  represent  the  manners  of 
the  Italians,  or  the  Turks  ;  to  narrate  the  proceedings 
of  the  Jesuits,  or  the  adventures  of  the  gypsies ;  than 
to  wiite  the  iii'^tory  of  his  own  mind. 

If  we  had  practised  ha,bitual  self-observation,  we 
could  not  have  failed  to  make  important  discoveries. 
There  have  been  thousands  of  feelings,  each  of  which, 
if  strongly  seized  upon,  and  made  the  subject  of  re- 
flection, would  have  shewn  us  what  our  character 
was,  and  m  hat  it  was  likely  to  become.  There  have 
been  numerous  incidents,  which  operated  on  us  as 
tests,  and  so  fully  brought  cut  the  whole  quality  of 
the  mind,  that  another  person,  who  should  have  been 
discriminativcly  observing  us,  would  instantly  liave 
formed  a  decided  estimate.  But  unfortunately  the 
mind  is  too  much  occupied  by  the  feeling  or  the  in- 
cident itself,  to  have  the  slightest  care  or  conscious- 
ness that  any  tiling  could  be  learnt,  or  is  disclosed. 
In  very  early  youth  it  is  almost  inevitable  for  it  to  be 
thus  lost  to  itself  even  amidst  its  gwn  feelings,  and 
the  external  objects  of  attention  ;  but  it  seems  a  con- 
lemplible  thing,  and  it  certainly  is  a  criminal  and 
dangerous  tiling,  for  a  man  in  mature  life  to  allow 
himself  this  thoughtless  escape  from  self-examination. 

We  have  not  only  neglected  to  observe  what  our 
ieelings  indicated,  but  have  also  in  a  very  great  de- 
gree ceased  to  remember  wliat  they  were.  We  may 
justly  wonder  how  our  minds  could  pass  away  sue- 
ceedvely  from  so  many  scenes  and  moments  wliich 


Narrative  Ficces.  113 

seemed  to  us  important,  each  in  its  time,  and  retain 
so  sliglit  an  impression,  that  we  have  now  nothing 
to  teJI  about  what  once  excited  our  utmost  emotion. 
As  to  my  own  rnind,  I  perceive  that  it  is  becoming 
uncertain  of  the  exact  nature  of  many  feelings  of  con- 
siderable interest,  even  of  later  years ;  of  course,  the 
remembrance  of  what  was  felt  in  early  life  is  exceed- 
ingly faint.  I  have  just  been  observing  several  chil- 
dren of  eight  or  ten  years  old,  in  all  tlic  active  vivaci- 
ty which  enjoys  the  plenitude  of  the  moment  without 
"  looking  before  or  after ;"  and  while  observing,  I 
attempted,  but  without  success,  to  recollect  what  I 
was  at  that  age.  I  can  indeed  remember  the  princi- 
pal events  of  the  period,.and  the  actions  and  projects 
to  which  my  feelings  impelled  me  ;  but  the  feelings 
themselves,  in  their  own  pure  juvenility,  cannot  be 
revived,  so  as  to  be  described  and  placed  in  compari- 
son with  those  of  maturity.  What  is  become  of  all 
those  vernal  fancies  which  had  so  much  power  to 
touch  the  heart  ?  What  a  number  of  sentiments 
have  lived  and  revelled  in  the  soul  that  are  now  irre- 
vocably gone.  They  died,,  like  the  singing  birds  of 
that  lime,  which  now  sing  no  niore^ 

The  life  that  we  then  had,  now  seems  almost  as  if 
it  could  not  Ixave  been  ooi*  own.  When  we  go  back 
to  it  in  thought,  and  endeavour  to  recal  the  interests 
which  animated  it,  they  ^viII  not  come.  We  are  like 
a  man  returning  after  the  absence  of  many  years,  to 
visit  the  embowered  cottage  where  he  passed  the 
morning  of  his  life,  and  finding  only  a  relic  of  Its  ru- 
ins. 

View  of  Life — continued^ 

We  may  regard  our  past  life  as  a  contiruicd,  though 
irregular  course  of  education;  and  ths  discii)line  ha« 
consisted  of  instruction,  companionship,  reading, 
and  the  diversified  intluences  of  the  world.  The 
young  mind  eagerly  came  forward  to  meet  the  opera- 
tion of  some  of  these  modes  of  disGipIinc,  tii(  ugh. 


Ill  Narrative  Pieces. 

M  ithout  the  possibility  of  a  thought  concerning  tlie 
important  process  nncler  which  it  was  beginning  to 
pass.  In  sonic  certain  degree  we  have  been  induenc- 
fd  by  each  of  these  yartsof  the  great  system  of  educa- 
tion ;  it  will  be  worth  while  to  inquire  how  far,  and 
in  what  manner. 

Few  persons  can  look  back  to  the  early  period  when 
they  Avei-e  peculiarly  the  subjects  of  instruction, 
without  a  regret  for  themselves,  (which  may  be  ex- 
tended to  the  human  race,)  that  the  result  of  instruc- 
tion, excepting  that  which  leads  to  evil,  bears  so 
small  a  proportion  to  its  compass  and  repetition.  Yet 
some  good  consequence  will  follow  the  diligent  incul- 
cation of  truth  and  precc])t  on  the  youthful  mind  ;  and 
cur  consciousness  of  i)0ssesfing  certain  advantages 
derived  from  it  will  !)e  a  partial  consolation  in  the  re- 
view that  will  comprise  so  many  proofs  of  its  compa- 
rative inellicacy.  You  can  recollect  perhaps  the  in- 
structions to  Vthich  you  feel  yourself  permanently  the 
most  indebted,  and  some  of  those  which  produced 
the  greatest  eilect  on  your  mind  at  the  time,  those 
>vhich  surprized,  delighted,  or  mortified  you.  You 
can  remember  the  facility  or  dilticuity  of  under- 
standing, the  facility  or  dilHculty  of  believing,  and 
the  practical  inferences  which  you  drew  from  princi- 
ples, on  the  strength  of  your  own  reason,  and  some- 
times in  variar>ce  w  ith  those  made  by  your  instructors. 
You  can :  ememl)er  \s  liat  viev,  s  of  truth  and  duty  were 
most  frequently  and  cogently  presented,  what  pas- 
sions v^ere  appealed  to,  what  arguments  were  em- 
ployed, and  which  had  the  greatest  iniluenc-e.  Per- 
haps your  present  idea  of  the  most  convincing  and 
persuasive  mode  of  instruction  may  I>e  derived  from 
your  early  experience  of  the  manner  of  those  persons, 
ivith  wliose  op.inions  you  felt  it  the  most  easy  and  de- 
lightful to  harmonize,  who  gave  you  the  most  agreea- 
ble consciousness  of  your  faculties  expanding  to  the 
light,  like  morning  /lowers,  and  who,  assuming  the 
least  of  dictation,  exerted  the  greatest  degree  of  pow- 
er.    You  can  recoikct  the  submissiveness  with  '.vhich 


Narrative  Pieces.  tl9 

your  niiiid  yielded  to  instruct  ions  as  from  an  oracle^ 
CH"  the  hardiliaod  witii  which  you  dared  to  examine 
and  oppose  tlieni.  You  can  remeniher  how  fai-  they 
became,  as  to  your  own  conduct,  an  internal  authori- 
ty of  reason  and  conscience,  when  you  were  not  un- 
der tlie  inspection  of  those  who  inculcated  them  ;  and 
w  hat  classes  of  persons  or  things  around  you  they  in- 
duced you  to  dislike  or  approve.  And  you  can  per- 
haps imperfectly  trace  the  manner  and  the  particulars 
In  which  they  sometimes  aided,  or  sometimes  coun- 
teracted, tliose  other  influences  whicli  ha\e  a  far 
strongei:  efficacy  on  the  character  than  irif^truction  can 
boast. 

!Most  persons,  I  presume,  ca»i  recollect  fome  few 
sentences  or  conversations  whicii  made  so  deep  an 
impression,  perhaps  in  some  instances  they  can 
Ecarcely  tell  why,  that  tbey  have  l^icn  thousands  of 
times  recalled,  Mhile  all  the  rest  have  been  forgot- 
ten;  or  they  can  advert  to  some  strikin.?;  incident, 
coming  in  aid  of  histruction,  or  beiii:^  of  itself  a  for- 
cil)le  initruction,  which  they  seem  even  r.owtosee  as 
clearly  as  when  it  happened,  and  of  which  they  Avill 
retain  a  perfect  idea  to  the  end  of  life.  In  some  in- 
stances, to  recollect  the  instructions  of  a  former  pe- 
riod will  be  to  recollect  too  the  e^celltnce,  the  affec- 
tion, and  the  death,  of  I  he  persons  A\ho  gave  Ihcm. 
Amidst  the  sadness  of  such  a  remembrance,  it  wWi 
be  a  consolation  that  they  arc  not  entirely  lost  to  us. 
"Wise  monitioiTS,  when  they  retm'n  on  us  with  this 
m.*lancholy  charm,  have  more  pathetic  cogeixy  than 
\\hen  they  were  first  uttered  by  the  voice  of  a  living 
friend  who  is  no\vr  silent.  It  will  be  an  interesting 
occupation  of  tlie  pensive  hour,  to  recount  the  ad- 
vantages which  v^e  have  received  from  beings  who 
have  left  the  world,  and  to  reinforce  our  virtues  from 
the  dust  of  those  who  first  taught  tlicm. 

In  our  review,  we  shall  find  that  the  conipanions 
of  our  childhood,  and  of  each  succeedmg  period, 
have  had  a  great  influence  on  our  characters.  A  crea- 
ture Eo  conformabb  as  man,  and  at  the  same  time  so 


116  Narrative  Pieces. 

capable  of  being  moulded  into  partial  dissimilarity  by 
social  antipathic^,  cannot  have  conversed  witli  his  fel- 
low beini;s  thousands  of  hours,  walked  with  them 
tliousands  of  milcF,  undertaken  with  them  numbcr- 
Jtsp  enterprises  smaller  and  greater,  and  had  every 
passion  by  turns  awakened  in  their  company,  without 
being  immensely  aii';cled  by  all  this  association.  A 
large  share  indeed  of  the  social  interest  may  have 
been  of  so  comnwn  a  kind,  and  with  persons  of  so 
common  an  order,  that  the  cilect  on  the  character 
has  been  too  little  peculiar  to  be  strikingly  percepti- 
ble during  the  progress.  We  were  not  sensible  of  it^ 
till  we  came  to  some  of  those  circumstances  and  chang- 
es in  li'c,  which  make  as  aware  of  the  state  of  our 
minds  by  the  manner  in  \\  hich  new  objects  are  accept- 
table  or  repulsive  to  them.  On  removing  into  a  new 
circle  of  society,  fcjr  instance,  we  could  perc<;ive,  by 
the  number  of  thiui^s  in  which  we  found  ourselves  un- 
congenial \\\\\\  i\v-i  new  acquaintance,  the  modifica- 
tion which  our  sentiments  had  received  in  the  pre- 
ceding social  intercourse.  But  in  some  instances  we 
have  been  sensible,  in  a  very  short  time,  of  a  power- 
ful fjrce  operating  on  our  opinions,  tastes,  and  habits, 
and  throwing  them  into  a  new  order.  This  eifect  is 
inevitable,  if  a  young  susceptil)Ie  min<l  happens  to 
become  timiliarly  acquainJed  \\ith  a  person  in -whom-, 
a  strongly  individual  cast  of  character  is  sustained 
and  dignified  by  uncomunon  mental  resources  ;  and  it 
may  be  found  that,  generally,  tlie  great'  st  measure  of 
effect  has  been  produced  l)y  tiie  inducnce  of  a  very 
smill  number  of  persons;  often  of  one  only,  whose 
txteiidcd  and  interesting  mind  had  more  power  to 
furrouiid  and  assimilate  a  young  ingenious  being, 
than  the  collective  ijifluencc  of  a  multitude  of  the  per- 
sons, >v'liose  characters  were  moulded  in  the  manufnc-^ 
tory  of  custom,  and  sent  forth  liko  images  of  clay  of 
landred  shape  and'  varni-h  from  a  pottery. 

Learn  then  to  look  back  with  great  interest  on  the 
world  of  circumstances  t]u"ou;^h  which  \\U  has  been 
drawn.     Consitlar  what  thousands  of  situations,  ap- 


Narrative  Pieces.  lit 

pearances,  incidents,  person?,  you  Iiave  ]jecn  present 
to,  each  in  its  moment.  The  review  m  ill  present  to 
yoii  something  like  a  chaos,  ^^ith  all  the  moral,  and 
all  other  elements,  confounded  together ;  and  you 
may  reflect  till  you  begin  almost  to  wonder  how  an 
individual  retains  even  the  same  essence  through  all 
the  diversities,  vicissitudes,  and  counteractions  of  in- 
fluence, that  operate  on  it  during  its  progress  through 
the  confusion.  But  though  its  essence  is  the  same, 
and  might  defy  an  universe  to  extinguish,  absorb,  or 
change  it ;  its  modification,  its  condition  and  habits, 
will  sliew  where  it  has  been,  and  ^v•hat  it  has  under- 
gone. You  may  descry  on  it  the  marks  and  colours 
of  many  of  the  things  by  which,  in  passing,  it  has 
been  touched  or  arrested. 

Consider  the  numl>er  of  meetings  with  acciuaiut- 
ance,  friends,  or  strangers ;  the  number  of  conversa- 
tions you  have  held  or  heard ;  the  number  of  exhi- 
bitions of  good  or  evil,  virtue  or  vice ;  the  number 
of  occasions  on  which  you  have  been  disgusted  or 
pleased,  moved  to  admiration  or  to  abhorrence ;  the 
number  of  times  that  you  havf  contemplated  the 
town,  the  rural  cottage,  or  verdant  fields ;  the  num- 
ber of  volumes  that  you  have  read  ;  the  times  that 
you  have  looked  over  the  present  state  of  the  world, 
or  gone  by  means  of  history  into  past  ages ;  the  num- 
ber of  comparisons  of  yourself  with  other  persons, 
alive  or  dead,  and  comparisons  of  them  with  one  an- 
other, the  number  of  solitary  musing.^,  of  solemn  con- 
templations of  night,  of  the  successive  subjects  of 
thought,  and  of  animated  sentiments  that  have  been 
kindled  and  extinguished.  Add  all  the  hours  and 
causes  of  sorrow  that  you  have  knonn.  Through 
this  lengthened,  and,  if  the  number  could  bs  told, 
stupendous,  multiplicity  of  things,  you  have  advanc- 
ed, while  all  tlieir  heterogenous  myriads  Lave  darted 
influences  upon  you,  each  one  of  them  having  some 
definable  tendency.  A  traveller  round  the  globe 
would  not  have  a  greater  variety  of  seasons,  prospects^ 
and  ^^■inds,  than  you  might  have  recorded  of  the  rii  • 


118  Didactic  Pieces. 

cumstaces  aii'ccting  the  progress  of  your  character,  in 
your  moral  journey.  You  could  not  wish  to  have 
dra\vn  to  yourself  the  agency  of  a  vaster  diversity  of 
causes;  you  could  not  wish,  on  the  supposition  that 
you  had  gained  advantage  from  all  these,  to  \\ear 
the  spoils  of  a  greater  number  of  regions.  The  form- 
ation of  the  character  from  so  many  materials  re- 
minds one  of  that  mighty  appropriating  attraction, 
which,  on  the  hypothesis  tha,t  the  resurrection  sliall 
re-asseral)Ie  the  same  particles  which  composed  the 
body  before,  will  draw  them  from  dust,  and  trees, 
and  animals,  and  ocean,  and  winds. 


CHAP.  III. 
DIDACTIC  PIECES. 


SECTION  I. 

On  Study, 

Studies  serve  for  delight,  for  ornament,  and  for 
ability.  The  chief  use  for  delight,  is  in  privateness 
and  retirement ;  for  ornament,  is  in  discourse ;  and 
for  ability,  is  in  tJie  judgment  and  disposition  of  bu- 
siness. For  expert  men  can  execute,  and  perhaps 
judge  of  particulars  one  by  one ;  but  the  general 
counsels,  and  the  plots,  and  marshalling  of  aiTairs, 
come  best  from  those  that  are  learned.  To  spend  too 
much  time  in  studies  is  sloth ;  to  use  them  too  much 
for  ornament  is  aifectatlon  ;  to  make  judgment  whol- 
ly by  their  rules  is  the  humour  of  a  tcholar.  Tl»ey 
perfect  nature,  and  are  perfected  by  experience;  for 
natural  abilities  are  like  natural  plants,  that  need  prkiii- 


Diduttiic  Pieces.  119 

tug  by  duty,  and  studios  themselves  do  give  forth  di- 
rections too  much  at  large,  except  they  be  bounded 
in  by  experience.  Crafty  men  contemn  studies,  sim- 
ple men  admire  them,  and  wise  men  use  them:  for 
tliey  teach  nof^vliat  is  their  own  use,  but  \vhat  is  wis- 
dom without  1  hem,  and  above  them,  Avon  by  of)serva- 
tion.  Head  not  to  conlrrdict  and  confute,  nor  to  be- 
lieve and  take  for  granted,  nor  to  find  talk  and  dis- 
course, but  to  weigli  and  consider.  Some  books  are 
to  be  lasted,  otiiers  to  be  swallowed,  and  some  few  to 
be  chewed  and  digested;  that  is,  some  books  are  to 
be  read  only  in  parts;  others  to  be  read,  but  not  cu- 
riously; and  some  few  to  be  read  wholly  ;  and  with 
diligence  and  attention.  Some  books  also  may  be 
read  by  deputy,  and  extracts  made  of  them  by  others ; 
but  that  should  be  only  in  the  less  important  argu- 
ments, and  the  meaner  sort  of  books;  else  distilled 
books  are  like  common  distilled  waters,  ilasiiy  things. 
Reading  makes  a  full  man  ;  conference  a  ready  man  ; 
and  writing  an  exact  man.  ,-.nd  therefore,  if  a  man 
■write  little,  he  had  need  have  a  great  memory ;  if  he 
confir  little,  he  had  need  have  a  present  wit  ;  and  if 
he  read  little,  he  had  need  have  much  cunning  to 
seem  to  know  that  he  dolli  not. 


SECTIOX  IL 

IlamJcfs  Dircciions  to  the  Players. 

SpJE-VK  the  speech,  1  pray  you,  as  I  pronounced  il 
to  you,  trippling'y  on  the  tongue.  But  if  you  mouth 
it  as  many  of  our  players  do,  I  had  as  leif  tlie  town- 
crier  had  spoke  my  lines.  And  do  not  saw^  the  air  too 
much  with  your  hand  thu?>  but  use  all  gently ;  f-ff 
in  the  very  torrent,  tempest,  and,  as  1  may  say,  whirl- 
wind of  your  passion,  you  must  acquire  and  beget  a 
temperance  that  may  give  it  smoothness.     Oli !  it  of- 


130  Didactic  Pieces. 

fends  me  to  the  sou!,  to  l\car  a  rohustcous  periwig- 
patecl  fellow  tear  a  passion  to  tatters,  to  very  raj^s; 
to  split  the  cars  of  the  groundlings;  who,  lor  the 
jnost  part,  are  capable  of  noliiing  hut  inexplicable 
duml)  shows,  and  noise  ;  I  would  have  such  a  fellow 
whipt  for  overdoing  TcniiagaHt,  it  out-hcrods  He- 
rod ;  pray  you  avoid  it. 

Be  not  too  tame  neither  ;  but  let  your  own  discre- 
tion be  your  tutor.  Suit  the  action  to  the  word,  the 
word  to  the  action  ;  with  this  special  observance,  that 
you  overstep  7wt  the  modesty  of  nature :  fur  any  thing 
so  overdone  is  from  the  purpose  of  nature ;  whose 
end,  both  at  the  first  and  now,  was  and  is,  to  hold 
as  'twere  the  mirror  up  to  nature;  to  show  Virtue 
her  own  feature.  Scorn  her  own  image,  and  the  ve- 
ry age  and  body  of  the  Time  his  form  and  pressure. 
Now  this  overdone,  or  come  tardy  oiT,  though  it  make 
the  unskilful  laugh,  cannot  !jut  make  the  judicious 
grieve  ;  the  censure  of  one  of  which,  must  in  your  al- 
lowance overweigh  a  .vhole  theatre  of  others.  Oh  ! 
there  be  players  that  1  have  seen  play,  and  heard  oth- 
ers j)raise,  and  that  highly  too,  (not  to  speak  it  pro- 
fanely,) that  neitlier  having  the  action  of  christian, 
nor  the  gait  of  christian,  p^gan,  nor  man,  have  so 
strutted  and  bellowed,  that  I  have  thought  sojne  of 
Nature's  journeymen  had  made  men,  and  not  made 
them  wfll ;  they  imitated,  humanity  so  al^onsinably. 

And  let  those  that  play  your  clowns,  speak  no  more 
tha:?  is  set  dow  n  for  th  in  :  for  there  be  of  them  that 
will  themselves  laugh,  to  set  on  some  quantity  of  bar- 
ren spectators  to  laugh  too  :  though  in  the  meantime, 
some  necessary  part  of  the  piay  be  then  to  be  consi- 
dered. That's  villanou?,  and  shows  a  raost  pitiful 
ambition  in  the  fooi  that  uses  it. 


■DidacUc  Piece s-.i  121 

SECTION  III. 
Eloquence  and  Oratot.ij, 

Eloquence  may  be  defined  to  be  the  art  of  cxprcss- 
"ing  our  thoughts  and  feefings  with  precision,  foicc, 
and  elegance ;  and  of  heightening  the  iinpressions  of 
reason,  by  the  colourings  of  imagination. 

\\  is  applicable,  therefore,  to  the  ^vhole  faculty  of 
\-erbal  discourse,  \\  hethcr  oral  or  written.  It  address, 
-es  itself  by  t!ie  pen  to  the  eye,  as  weJl  as  by  the'iving 
organs  to  the  ear.  TJuis  we  speak  (with  admitted,  ac- 
curacy) of  an  eloquent  book,  as  fredy  as  of  an  eloquent 
cration ;  of  the  eloquent  Buiion  (aWuding  to  his  cele- 
brated work  on  natural  history  ;)  and  of  the  eloquent 
•\vritings,  as  of  the  eloquent  speeches  of  Edmund 
Burke.  T!in  apostrophe  to  the  queen  of  France  is  as 
genuine  a  piece  of  eloquence,  as  if  it  had  been  spoken 
in  the  House  of  Commons. 

Oratory,  on  the  contrary,  is  precise  and  limited  in 
its  application :  and,  in  this  respect,  hideed,  even  po- 
pular usage  is  pretty  generally  correct.  It  may  be 
defined  to  be  oral  eloquence  ;  or  the  art  of  communi- 
cating, by  the  immediate  action  of  the  vocal  and  ex- 
pressive organs,  to  popular  or  select  assemblies,  the 
dictates  of  our  reason,  or  our  will,  and  the  workings  oC 
our  passions,  our  fceJuigs,  and  our  imaginations. 

Oratory,  therefore,  includes  tlie  idea  of  eloquence: 
for  no  man  can  be  an  orator  who  has  not  an  affluence 
of  thought  and  language.  I-ut  cloqu- nee  does  not 
necessarily  inchul-)  th:^  idea  of  oratory ;  since  a  man 
maybe  rich  in  all  the  stores  of  langu;vge  arrd  thought, 
w  ithout  possessing  the  advantages  of  a  gl*a«eful  an'd 
imprefifive  delivery. 


■'SS  Didactic  Pieces. 

SECTION  IV. 

Of  Elocution. 

Elocution  is  tlie  art,  or  the  act  of  so  delivering  our 
own  thoughts  and  sentiments,  or  the  tlioughts  and 
sentiments  of  others,  as  not  only  to  convey  to  those 
around  us  (with  precision,  f )rce,  and  harmony,)  the 
full  purport  and  meaning  of  the  words  and  sentences 
in  which  these  thoughts  are  clothed;  hut  also  to  ex- 
cite and  impress  upon  their  minds,  the  feelings,  the 
imaginations,  and  the  passions,  l)y  whicJi  those 
thoughts  are  dictated,  or  w  ith  w  hich  they  should  na- 
turally he  accompanied. 

Elocution,  therefore,  in  its  more  ample  and  Iib;;ral 
fiignication,  is  not  confined  to  the  mere  exercise  of  the 
organs  of  s{>eech.  It  embraces  the  whole  theory  and 
practice  of  the  exterior  demonstration  of  the  inw  ard 
workings  of  the  mind. 

To  concentrate  Avhat  has  been  said  by  an  allegorical 
recapitulation — Eloqu^nice  may  be  considered  as  the 
sou!,  or  anijnating  principle  of  discourse  ;  and  is  de- 
pendent nn  intellectual  energy  and  intellectual  attain- 
ments. Elocution  is  the  embod>iug  form,  or  repre- 
sentative power;  dependent  on  exterior  accomplish- 
ments, and  on  the  cultivatir-n  of  the  organs.  Oratory 
is  the  complicated  and  vital  existence  resulting  from 
tlie  perfect  harmony  and  combination  of  Eloquence 
and  Elocution. 

The  vital  existence,  how  ever,  in  its  full  perfection, 
is  one  of  the  choicest  rarities  of  nature.  The  high 
and  splendid  ace  ^mplifehments  of  oratory  (even  in  the 
most  favoured  age,  and  the  most  favoured  countries) 
have  betn  attained  Ijy  few:  and  many  are  the  ages, 
and  many  are  the  countries,  in  w  hich  those  accom- 
plislimcnts  have  never  once  appeared.  Generations 
have  succeeded  to  generations,  and  centuries  have 
rolled  after  centuries,  during  \\  liich  the  intellectual 
desert  has  not  exiiibilcd  even  one  solitary  specimen  ol" 


Didactic  Pieces.  133 

the  stately  growth  and  flourishing  expansion  of  orOr 
toricai  genius. 

Tlie  rarity  of  this  occurrence  is,  unclou])tedly,  in 
part,  to  be  accounted  for,  from  the  difficulty  of  the  at- 
tainment. The  paini  of  oratorical  perfection  is  only 
to  ht  grasped — it  is,  in  reality,  only  to  be  desired — by 
aspiring  soul?,  and  intellects  of  unusual  energy.  It  re- 
quires a  persevering  toil  wliich  few  would  be  content- 
ed to  encomiter; — a  decisive  intrepidity  of  character, 
and  an  unlameableness  of  mental  ambition,  which  ve- 
ry, very  few  can  be  expected  to  possess.  It  requires, 
also,  conspicuous  opportunities  for  cultivation  and 
display, — to  which  few  can  have  the  fortune  to  Ihj 
born ;  and  which  fewer  still  will  have  the  hardihood 
to  endeavour  to  create. 


SECTION  V. 

Faults  of  Conversation* 


Every  one  endeavours  to 'make  himself  as  agreea- 
ble to  society  as  he  can  ;  but  it  often  happens,  that 
those  w  ho  most  aim  at  shining  in  conversation  over?' 
shoot  their  mark.  VV^e  should  try  io  keep  up  conver- 
sation like  a  ball  bandied  to  and  fro  from  one  to  the 
other,  rather  th^jji  seize  it  all  to  ourselves,  and  drive 
it  before  us  like  a  f'^'ot-ball. 

We  should  likewise  be  cautious  to  adapt  the  matter 
of  our  discourse  to  our  company  ;  and  not  talk  Greek 
before  Ladies,  or  of  the  last  new  fashion  to  a  meeting 
of  country  justices. 

But  nothing  throws  a  more  ridiculous  air  over  our 
whole  conversation  than  peculiarities  ;  easily  acquired 
but  not  conquered  or  discarded  without  extreme  dif- 
ficulty. Those  who  accompany  every  word  with  a 
peculiar  grimace  or  gesture ;  who  assent  with  a  shrug, 
contradict  witha  twisting  of  the  neck,  arc  angry  with 


134  Didactic  Ficce^. 

a  wry  wouth^  and  pleased  in  a  caper,  or  minuet  step-, 
may  be  considered  as  speaking  harlequins.  With- 
these  we  condemn  the  aiiected  tribe  of  miniics,  who 
are  continually  taking  off  the  peculiar  tone  of  voice  o? 
gef^lure  of  their  acquaintance;,  though  they  are  gene- 
rally £uch  wrelchcd  imitators,  that  like  bad  painters,. 
they  are  frequently  forced  to  write  tlie  name  under 
the  pictwe  before  we  can  discover  any  likeness. 

It  is  unnecessary  to  point  out  all  the  pests  of  coiu 
versalion,  or  to  dwell  on  the  sensihies,  avIio  pronounce 
<3ogmaticaIly  on  the  most  trivial  points,,  and  speak  ia 
sentences;  the  7iondcrers,  who  are  always  wondering 
■what  o'clock  it  is,  or  Avondering  whether  it  will  rain 
or  no,  or  wondering  wlicn  the  moon  changes  ;.  the 
phraseologists,  who  explain  a  thing,  by  all  that  and 
father ;  lastly,  the  silent  persons,  who  seem  afraid  ol 
opening  their  mouths  lest  th(y  should  catch  cold,  and 
literally  observe  the  precepts  of  the  gospel,  letting 
their  conversation  be  only,  yea,  yea;  aiid  nay,  nay. 

The  rational  intercourse  kept  up  by  conversation,, 
is  one  of  our  principal  distinctions  from  brutes.  We 
should  therefore  endeavour  to  turn  this  particular  ta- 
lent to  our  advantage,  and  consider  the  organs  of 
speech  as  the  instruments  of  undestaading ;  we  should 
be  very  careful  not  to  use  them  as  the  weapons  of  vice, 
or  tools  of  folly,  and  do  our  utmost  to  unlearn  any 
trivial  or  ridiculous  habits,  which  tend  to  lessen  the 
valae  of  such  an  inestimable  prerogative. 


SECTION  VI. 

On  Satirical  Wit. 

— TiitJsy  me,  this  unwary  pleasantry  of  thine  wiJi. 
.£ooBer  or  later  bring  thee  into  scrapes  and  difficulties, 
which  no  after  wit  can  extricate  thee  out  of.  In  these 
salUesj  t©o  &%.  \  sse,  it  happens,  that  tke  person. iavi^lL-. 


didactic  Pieces.  125 

ed  af,  considers  himself  in  the  light  of  a  person  injured, 
-vvith  all  the  rights  of  such  a  siuation  belonging  to  h\n\  \ 
and  when  thou  vie  west  him  in  that  light  too,  and 
reckonest  upon  his  friends,  his  family,  his  kindred  and 
allies,  and  musterest  up  with  them  the  many  recruits 
which  w  ill  list  under  him  from  a  sense  of  common 
danger;  'ti?  no  extravagant  arithmetic  to  say,  that 
for  every  ten  jokes  thou  hast  got  a  hundred  enemies; 
and,  till  thou  hast  gone  on,  and  raised  a  swarm  of 
■  wasps  about  tJiine  ears,  and  art  half  stung  to  death  by 
t'lcm,  thou  wilt  never  be  convinced  it  is  so. 

I  cannot  suspect  it  in  the  man  wJiom  I  esteem,  that 
there  is  the  least  spur  from  spleen  or  malevolence  of 
intent  in  these  sallies.  I  beliave  and  knew  tliem  to  be 
truly  honest  and  sportive ;  but  consider,  that  fools 
cannot  distinguish  this»  aiul  knaves  ^vill  not ;  and  thou 
knowest  not  Avliat  it  i^,  either  to  provoke  the  one  or 
make  merry  with  the  other ;  whenever  they  ar-scciate 
for  mutual  defence,  depend  upon  it  they  will  carry 
on  the  war  in  such  a  manner  against  thee,  my  dear 
friend,  a«  to  make  thee  heartily  sick  of  it,  and  of  tliy 
life  too. 

Revenge  from  some  baneful  corner  eIi«i.?^  level  a  talc 
of  dishonour  at  thee,  which  no  innocence  of  heart  or 
ilitegrity  of  conduct  shall  set  right.  The  fortunes  of 
thy  house  shall  otter— thy  character,  which  lod  the 
way  to  tJiem,  shall  bleed  on  <wery  side  of  it — thy 
faith  questioned —thy  norkti  belied — thy  wit  forgot- 
ten— thy  learning  trampled  on.  To  wind  upthcldfit 
scene  of  thy  tragedy,  Cruelty  and  Cowardice,  twin 
ruffians,  hired  and  set  on  by  Malice  in  the  dark>  shall 
strike  together  at  all  tJiy  infirmities  and  mistik^s: 
the  best  of  us,  my  friend,  lie  op.ni  there,  and  tru  4  me 
-^w hen  to  gratify  a  private  appetite,  it  is  once  re- 
solved upon,  that  an  innoceat  and  h^^lpless  cr^^ature 
f^hall  be  sacrificed,  it  is  an  easy  mitter  to  pick  up 
sticks  enough  from  any  thicket  where  it  has  stray pd, 
to  make  a  fire  to  oiier  it  up  \\ith. 

1>2 


136  didactic  Fkces. 

''  SECTION  VII. 

Of  Successful  Speaking, 

It  is  only  necessary,  in  fact,  for  the  orator  to  keep 
one  man  iti  view  amidst  tlie  multitude  tliat  surrounds 
liim  ;  and,  excepting  those  enumerations  ^vhich  re- 
quire some  variety  in  order  to  paint  the  passions,  con- 
ditions, and  characters,  he  ought  merely,  whilst  com- 
posing, to  address  himself  to  that  one  man  whose  mis- 
takes he  laments,  and  whose  foibles  he  dicovers. 
This  man  is,  to  him,  as  the  genius  of  Socrates,  stand- 
ing continually  at  his  side,  and  by  turns,  interrogating 
him,  or  answering  his  questions.  This  is  he  w  horn 
the  orator  ought  never  to  lose  sight  of  in  writing,  till 
he  obtain  a  conquest  over  his  prepossessions.  The 
arguments  which  will  be  suificiently  persuasive  to 
©vercome  his  opposition,  will  equally  control  a  large 
assenil>ly. 

1  he  orator  w  ill  derive  still  farther  advantages  from 
a  numerous  concourse  of  people.  Adhere  all  the  im- 
pressions made  at  the  time  will  convey  the  finest  tri- 
umphs of  the  art,  by  forming  a  sj)ecies  of  action  and 
re-action  between  the  auditory  and  the  speaker.  It 
is  in  this  sense  that  Cicero  is  right  in  saying,  "  That 
no  man  can  l)e  eloquent  without  a  multitude  to  hear 
him.'*  The  auditor  came  to  hear  a  discourse  : — the 
orator  attacks  him ;  accuses  him ;  makes  him  abash- 
ed; addresses  him,  at  one  time  as  his  confident,  at 
■another  as  his  mediator,  or  his  judge.  See  w  ith  w  hat 
address  he  unveils  his  most  concealed  passions ;  with 
"oliat  penetration  he  shews  him  his  most  intimate 
thougiits;  with  what  energy  he  annihilates  his  best 
framed  excuses  \ — The  culprit  repents.  Profound  at- 
tention, consternation,  confu>ion,  remorse,  all  announce 
that  the  orator  has  penetrated,  in  his  retired  medita- 
tions, into  the  recesses  of  the  heart.  Then  provided 
no  il!-timcd  sally  of  wit  follow,  to  blunt  the  strokes  of 
Cliristiau  eloquence,  there  may  be  in  the  cimrch  twd 


Didactic^  Piccet^  Itl 

thousand  auditor?,  yet  there  will  be  but  onetIiought» 
but  one  opinion ;  and  all  those  individuals  uniteci, 
form  that  ideal  man  whom  the  orator  had  iu  view 
while  composing  his  discoui  se. 


SECTION  VIII. 

The  Orator  should  study  himself. 

But,  you  may  ask,  where  is  this  ideal  man,  com- 
posed of  so  many  diilercnt  traits,  to  ])e  found,  unless- 
Me  describe  some  chimerical  being  ?  Where  shall  we 
find  a  phantom  like  this,  singular  but  not  outr  ,  ia 
which  every  individual  may  recognize  himself,  al- 
though it  resemble  not  any   one?     Where  shall  we 

find  him  ? — In  your  own  heart. Often  retire  there. 

Survey  all  its  recesses.  There,  you  will  trace  both 
the  pleas  for  those  passions  which  you  \\\\{  have  to 
combat,  and  the  source  of  those  false  reasonings  which 
you  must  point  out.  To  be  eloquent,  we  nmst  enter 
within  ourselves.  The  first  productions  of  a  young 
orator  are  generally  too  far  fetched.  -His  mind,  al- 
ways on  the  stretch,  is  making  continual  efforts,  with- 
out his  ever  venturing  to  commit  himself  to  the  sim- 
plicity of  nature,  until  experience  teiich  liim,  that  to 
arrive  at  the  sublime,  it  is,  in  fact,  less  necessary  to  el- 
evate his  imagination,  than  to  be  deeply  impressed 
Avith  his  subject. 

If  you  have  studied  the  sacred  books ;  if  you  have 
observed  men ;  if  you  have  attended  to  writers  on 
morals,  who  serve  you  instead  of  historians ;  if  you 
have  become  familiar  with  the  language  of  orators; 
make  trial  of  your  eloquence  upon  yourself :  become, 
so  to  speak,  the  auditor  of  your  own  discourses ;  and 
thus,  by  anticipating  the  efTect  which  they  ought  to 
produce,  you  will  easily  delineate  true  characters ; 
^-ou  will  perceive,  that,  notwithstanding  the  sliade"? 


138  Didaclic  Pieces^ 

of  difference  which  distinguish  them,  all  mf'n  bearan 
interior  resemblance  to  one  another,  and  that  their 
vices  have  a  uniforniit}',  because  they  always  proceed 
either  from  weakness  or  interest.  In  a  word,  your 
descriptions  will  n-)t  be  indeterminate  ;  and  the  more 
thoroughly  you  shall  have  examined  what  passes 
within  your  own  breast,  with  more  ability  will  you 
luifold  the  hearts  of  others. 


SECTIOiX  IX. 
Wit  injures  Eloquence. 

To  all  those  rules  whicli  art  furnishes  for  conduct^ 
ihg  the  plan  of  a  discourse,  we  proceed  to  subjoin  a^ 
general  ruli*,  from  w  hicii  orators,  and  especially  Chris- 
tian orators,  ought  never  to  swerve. 

When  such  begin  their  career,  the  zeal  for  the  sal-- 
vation  of  souls  which  animates  them,  doth  not  render 
them  always  unmindful  of  the  glory  which  follows- 
great  success.  A  blind  desire  to  shine  and  to  please, 
ys  often  at  the  expense  of  that  substantial  honour 
which  might  be  obtained,  were  they  to  give  them- 
selves up  to  the  pure  emotions  of  piety,  which  so  Avell 
agree  with  the  sensibility  necessary  to  eloquence. 

It  is,  unquestionaI)ly,  to  be  w-isljed,  that  he  who 
devotes  himself  to  the  arduous  labour  which  preach- 
ing requires,  should  be  wholly  ambitious  to  render 
himself  useful  to  the  cause  of  religion.  To  such,  re- 
putation can  never  be  a  sulhcient  recompense.  But 
a  motives  so  pure  have  not  sufficient  sway  in  your 
breast,  calculate,  at  least,  the  advantages  of  self-love, 
and  you  may  perceive  how  inseparably  connected 
these  are  with  the  success  of  your  ministry. 

Is  it  on  your  own  account  that  you  preach  ?  Is  if 
&r  you  that  religion  assembles  her  votaries  in  a  tera- 
lilc  ?     You  ought  never  to  indulge  so  presumptuous u 


Didaclic  Pieces.  129^ 

thought.  However,  I  only  consider  you  as  an  orator. 
Tell  me  then,  what  is  this  you  call  Eloquence?  Is 
it  the  wretched  trade  of  iniit^itin*^'  that  criminal,  meir- 
tioned  by  a  poet  in  his  satire?^  who  "  balanced  liis 
crimes  before  his  judges  with  antithesis  ?"  Is  it  the 
))uerile  secret  of  forming  jt^une  quibbles?  of  round- 
ing periods?  of  tormenting  one's  sell  by  tedious  stu- 
dies, in  order  to  reduce  sacred  instruction  into  vain 
amusement?  Is  tliis,  then,  the  idea  whicli  you  have 
conceived  of  that  divine  art  wliieh  disdains  frivolou? 
ornaments,  which  sways  tlie  most  numerous  assemblies,, 
and  which  bestows  on  a  single  man  the  most  personal 
and  majestic  of  all  sovereignties?  Are  you  in  quest 
of  glory  ? — You  fly  from  it.  Wit  alone  ig  never  sub- 
lime ;  and  it  is  only  by  the  vehemence  of  the  passions 
that  you  can  become  eloqent. 

Reckon  up  all  the  illustrious  orators.  Will  you  find 
among  them  conceited,  subtle,  or  epigrammatic  vri* 
ters  ?  No ;  these  immortal  men  confined  tiieir  at- 
tempts to  affect  and  persuade ;  and  their  havhrg  been 
always  simple,  is  thai  which  will  always  render  them 
great — Haw  is  this  ?  You  wish  to  proceed  in  their 
footsteps,  and  you  stoop  to  the  degrading  pretensions 
of  a  rhetorician !  And  you  appear  in  the  form  of  a 
mendicant  soliciting  commendations  from  those  very 
Mien  who  ought  to  tremble  at  your  feet !  Recover  from 
this  ignominy.  Be  eIo<|uent  by  zeal,  instead  of  being 
a  mere  declaimer  through  vanity.  And  be  assured^ 
tJiat  the  most  certain  njethod  of  preaching  well  for 
yourself  is  to  preach  usefully  to  others. 


SECTION  X. 

Of  the  Production  of  Ideas. 

It  is  this  contiual  propagation  of  great  ideas,  by 
'vhtcJi  they  are  mutually  enlivened  j  it  is  this  art  ol! 


130  Didactic  Fieces, 

incessantly  advancing  in  compogition,  that  givei 
strength  to  eloquence^  rapidity  to  discourse,  and  the 
whole  interest  of  dialogue  to  an  uninterrupted  suc- 
cession of  ideas,  which,  were  they  disjointed,  \^'Ould 
produce  no  ett'ects,  but  languish  and  die. — The  pro- 
gression which  imparts  increasing  strength  to  each 
period,  is  the  natural  representation  of  those  transports 
of  soul  which  should  enliven  throughout  the  compo- 
sitions of  the  orator.  Hence  it  follows,  that  an  elo- 
quent writer  can  only  be  formed  by  a  fertility  and 
vastness  of  thought. 

Detachexl  phrases,  superfluous  passages,  M'itty  com- 
parisons, unprofitable  definitions,  the  affectation  of 
shining  or  surprising  at  every  word,  the  extravagance 
of  genius,  these  do  not  emich,  but  rather  impoverish 
a  writer,  as  often  as  they  interrupt  his  progress 

Let,  then,  the  orator  avoid,  as  most  dangerous 
rocks,  those  ensnaring  sallies,  which  would  diminish 
the  impetuosity  of  his  ardour.  Without  pity  on  his 
productions,  and  without  ever  regretting  the  apparent 
sacrifices  which  it  will  cost  him,  let  him,  as  lie  pro- 
ceeds, retrench  this  heap  of  flourishes,  which  stifles  his 
eloquence,  instead  of  embellishing  it ;  and  which  hur- 
ries him  on  forcibly,  rather  than  gracefully,  towards 
his  main  design. 

If  the  hearer  find  himself  continually  where  he  was, 
if  he  discover  the  enlargement,  the  return  of  the  same 
ideas,  or  the  playing  upon  words,  he  is  no  more  trans- 
ported with  the  admiration  of  a  vehement  orator  ;  it 
is  a  florifl  declaimer,  whom  he  hears  without  eiiect. 
He  does  not  even  hear  him  long.  He  also,  like  the 
orator,  makes  idle  reflections  on  every  Mord.  He  is 
continually  losing  sight  of  the  thread  of  the  discourse, 
amidst  tliose  digressions  of  the  rhetorician,  who  is  aim- 
ing to  shine  while  his  subject  languishes.  At  length, 
tired  with  this  redundancy  of  words,  he  feels  his  ex- 
hausted attention  ready  to  expire  with  every  breath. 

Mistaken  man  of  genius!  wert  thou  acquainted 
with  the  true  method  of  attaining  eloquence,  instead 
ef  disgusting  thy  hearer  with  thy  insipid  antith,csif?» 


Didactic  Pieces.  J  31 

his  attention  would  not  Ixj  at  liberty  to  be  (liverted. 
He  would  partake  of  your  emotions.  He  would  1>C' 
come  all  that  you  mean  to  describe.  He  would  ima- 
gine that  he  himself  could  discover  the  plain  and  strik- 
>ng arguments  which  you  Juid  before  him,  and  in  ?ome 
measure,  compose  your  discourse  alont;  with  you. 
His  satisfaction  would  be  at  its  height,  as  woiUd  be 
your  glory.  And  you  wo'.ild  find,  that  it  is  tjie  de- 
light of  him  uho  h'jars,  which  always  eneurcs  the  tri- 
umph of  him  MJio  speaks. 

"  A  good  judge  of  the  art  of  Oratory,"  says  Cicero, 
"  nt;ed  not  hear  an  Orator  in  ord  .r  to  judge  of  his  me- 
rits— He  passes  on — He  observes  the  judgrs  conversing 
together — restless  on  tlieir  seats — frequently  inquiring 
in  the  middle  of  a  pleading,  whether  it  ba  not  tune  to 
close  the  trial,  and  break  up  tlie  court.  This  Is 
enough  for  him.  He  perceives  at  once  that  the  cause 
is  not  pleaded  by  a  man  of  eloquence,  who  can  com- 
mand every  mind,  as  a  musician  can  produce  harmo- 
nious strains  by  touching  the  strings  of  his  instrument, 

*'  But  if  he  perc;ive,  as  he  p:i?ses  on,  the  same  judg- 
es attentive — ^their  heads  erect — their  lo;ks  engaged, 
and  apparently  (^tiiick  with  admiratian  of  the  speaker, 
as  a  bird  is  charmed  witli  the  sweet  sounds  of  mu  ic  ; 
if,  abi.vc  all,  he  discover  th.em  (or  '  tlv?  conit,'  or 
*  the  audience')  most  pa'^sionatcly  ailected  by  pity,  by 
hafre<l,  or  by  any  strong  em  ition  of  the  heart ;  if,  I 
say,  as  he  passes  on,  he  perceive  these  eiit  cts,  though 
he  hear  not  a  w\ord  of  the  Oration,  lie  immediat-^ly 
concludes,  that  a  real  Orator  is  in  this  asseiul^Iy,  and 
that  the  work  of  eloquence  proceeds,  or  rather  is  al- 
ready accomplished." 


ISa  Didactic  Piccn. 

SECTION  XI. 

Oratory. 

Oii.MORY  is  tlic  art  of  speaking  gracefully  upon  any 
'iiibjc'Ct,  with  a  view  to  instruct,  persuade,  and  please. 
The  scope  of  this  art  is,  to  support  truth  and  virtue, 
to  maintain  the  rights  and  lilxrties  of  mankind,  to  al- 
leviate the  niiseriis  and  dislrtsscs  «:>f  life,  or  to  defend 
ilvi  innocent,  and  accuse  the  guilty. — Jhe  masters 
of  rhetoric  ausong  the  Greeks  and  Jlomans,  liavc 
con.-i(-kred  an  oration  as  consisting  of  thr:  e  or  four 
parts,  calleil  the  exordium,  or  mere  beginning ;  the 
narration  and  confirmation,  extending  from  thence  to 
the  peroration^  or  recapitulation  and  conclu'^ion  of 
what  has  been  sa  d.  ISow,  as  these  parts  of  an  ora- 
tion differ  widely  in  niturt  from  each  other,  so  they 
require  a  diiference  of  style.  A  discourse  may  open 
variety  of  way.-,  bespeaking  the  favour  and  attention 
of  the  audienc",  as  by  an  address  to  those  who  pre.-ide 
in  chief; — -with  an  apology; — with  setting  forth  the 
<l3sign  of  the  point  in  debate ; — or  with  any  other  form 
arising  from  the  speaker's  consideration  of  his  own 
situation,  or  tlie  person  of  his  hearers. — But,  from 
whatever  oCi:a:;ion  the  ixordium  may  tate  its  rise,  in 
general  it  sbouid  ba  short,  pl-iin,  and  modcst.-^Swell- 
iiig  intr';ducli.'  ns  to  plaisj  subjects  are  ridiculou':,  and 
to  great  actions  unnecessary,  because  they  sufficiently 
show  and  magnify  thr-mstlves; — not  but,  on  some 
occa-ions,  it  miy  bo  projjer  to  begin  with  spirit  and 
fiic.  l^Kamnles  of  this  kind  are  found  in  Cicero. — 
The  language  too  must  b^.  jWuin,  simple,  and  concise 
in  the  narration,  which  is  the  part  for  stating  the  sub- 
ject, and  setting  forth  its  consideration  under  oic  or 
more  prop-.-itions;  the  fewer  and  clearer  the  better: 
N  ithc  mil  L  the  speaker  rise  much  in  the  confirraa- 
ti  »n,  where  he  13*10  prove  th?  point  under  consic'i^ra- 
tion,  by  pr-iper  illu'^trations,  ai)t,  sliort,  and  plain 
examples;    by  expressive  similitudes,  cogent  argu- 


Bidactic  Pieces.  13$ 

4rietits,  and  just  observations,  hacked  and  sappot'ted 
by  authorities  divine  and  human.  litre  the  speaicer 
must  make  his  way  to  the  judgment  and  conviction  of 
his  audience,  by  words  and  matter  wwghty  and  signi- 
ficant ;  in  sentences  grave  and  unaiiected ;  in  short, 
rather  by  strong  good  sense  in  familiar  iang<iage,  than 
by  trilling  observations  in  hard  ■words  and  stu^iicd  or- 
naments.— The  subject  being  opened,  explained,  and 
confirnufi,  in  the  three  iirst  parts;  that  is  to  say,  the 
speaker,  having  gained  the  attention  and  judgment  of 
his  autlifnce,  must  proceed  in  the  peroration  to  com- 
plete his  conquests  over  the  passions,  such  as  imagina- 
tion, admiration,  surjirise,  bope,  joy,  love,  fear,  grief, 
anger. — To  these  some  applicati  n  may  be  made  in 
the  exordium ;  but  now  the  cnm t  must  be  paid  whol- 
ly to  them ;  in  managing  n  Inch  is  required  no  small 
skill  and  address.  Now,  therefore,  the  speaker  must 
begin  to  exert  liimself.— Here  it  is  that  a  fine  genius 
may  display  itself  in  the  use  of  amplification,  enume- 
ration, interrogation,  metaphor,  and  every  ornament 
that  can  render  a  discourse  entertaining,  \\  inning,  strik- 
ing, and  enforcing. — Thus  the  orator  may  gain  the  as- 
<:.cndant  over  his  audience  ; — can  turn  the  current  of 
their  minds  his  own  way,  either  like  the  rapid  Severn, 
with  uplifted  head,  running  on  imp-rtuous,  or  like  the 
smooth  gliding  Thames,  gently  rismg  by  almost  im- 
perceptible advances. 


SECTION  XII. 

liemarks  on  Reading', 

Reading  is  the  food  of  the  mind;  it  fornas  taste, 
f^nriches  knov, ledge,  and  refines  reason.  The  gay, 
the  giddy,  the  frivolou'^,  read  v\ithout  expamion  of 
soul,  or  improvement  of  their  mental  powers.  They 
r^ad  without  choice,  without  system,  and  with  heed- 
M 


134  Didactic  Pieces. 

lees  precipitation.  The  impressions  and  tlie  objects 
succeed  each  other  with  such  rapidity,  that  the  first 
is  eilaced  l)y  the  following,  and  all  are  jumblfd  toge- 
ther in  the  memory ;  so  that,  after  much  reading,  the 
men  1  allude  to  have  only  acquired  the  equivocal  ta- 
lent of  disgusting  a  sound  mind  with  embryo  ideas, 
lost  in  a  luxuriancy  of  words. 

Young  men  are,  in  general,  counselled  to  read  much. 
If  they  adhere  to  this  advice-,  if  they  devour  every 
book  that  falls  in  their  way,  as  is  usually  the  case,  even 
"with  those  that  have  the  best  intentions,  they  over- 
shoot their  mark,  and  their  purpose  is  disappointed. 
Amusement  only  will  become  their  aim.  They  will 
give  up  Tillotson,  Klackstone,  Addison,  Steele,  Con- 
greve,  &c.  for  a  novel,  that  is,  for  reading,  of  a  nature 
the  most  dangerous  to  the  undecided  taste  of  a  raw 
mind.  I  am  well  aware  that  there  are  some  few  of 
these  ephemeral  productiius  that  may  be  run  over 
with  a  sort  of  advantage,  but  this  must  not  be  during 
the  period  allotted  you  for  laying  the  foundations  of 
manly  eloquence. 

A  young  man  may  read  Don  Quixote  twenty  times 
oyer,  before  he  perceives  the  acuteness  of  the  author, 
or  feels  the  moral  aim  of  the  work.  It  will  appear  to 
him  a  tissue  of  extraordinary  events  only,  and  eccen- 
tricities of  a  wild  imagination.  You  well  know,  that 
in  romances,  or  even  novels,  things  are  generally  push- 
ed to  the  extreme.  If  they  treat  of  virtue,  it  loses  its 
name,  and  becomes  heroism  oi  fantastic  virtue.  They 
always  address  themselves  to  fancy,  and  lead  her  a 
chase  after  ideal  happiness,  which  nothing  but  cool 
reason,  in  a  more  advanced  period  of  life^  can  put  a 
stop  to. 

For  the  present,  therefore,  leave  every  work  of  this 
nature,  even  the  best,  and  peruse  none  but  such  as  are 
recommended  to  you  for  truth,  solidity,  and  elegance. 
To  guard  you  against  this  intemperance  of  reading, 
X  must  assure  you,  that  the. number  of  books  on  v.hicli 
you  should  form  your  taste,  is  by  no  means  considttra- 
])Je.     Let  your  friends  sec  master-pieces  in  your  hand?. 


Didactic  Pieces.  135 

Attach  yourselves,  at  first,  to  their  thoughts,  and  ac- 
quire, by  every  exertion  of  assiduity,  that  harmony  of 
style,  which  wins  the  soul  l)y  charmini^-  the  ear  ;  those 
felicities  of  expression,  that  rules  cannot  reach  to 
and  that  com])ination  of  sounds,  by  the  means  of  which 
j'ou  will  paint  and  impress  your  ideas. 

Be  not  precipitate ;  call  yourself  often  to  accovmt  for 
what  you  have  read.  I  would  counsel  you,  at  first, 
to  take  down  the  heads  in  writing.  You  will  soon 
find  yourself  able  to  reine)nber  them  without  tiiis  as- 
si-taiicp;  and,  besides,  you  will  imperceptibly  make 
yourself  master  of  the  art  of  analysis,  which  is  the 
surest  and  sliortest  road  to  instruction. 


SECTION  xin. 

Of  Method  in  Speaking, 

Method  is  the  art  of  ranking  every  thing  in  the 
place  that  suits  it ;  in  fact,  I  might  boldly  teli  you 
at  once,  that  method  is  nothing  but  good  taste ;  I  do 
not  mean  that  good  taste  which  produces  the  graces  of 
a  discourse,  but  that  other  species  of  taste  which  regu- 
lates the  order  in  wliich  the  diiferent  parts,  the  rea- 
sons, tlic  proofs,  and  all  the  means  of  persuasion, 
should  be  displayed,  for  the  purpose  of  producing  the 
greater  effect  :  it  is  not  the  taste  that  colours,  but  it 
is  that  which  draws,  which  sketches  the  forms,  and 
groups  them ;  in  short,  I  mean  the  taste  that  creates 
the  beauty  of  reason,  and  not  that  of  fancy;  the 
beauty  of  plenitude,  not  that  of  a  single  member.  It 
disposes  the  springs  that  you  are  to  put  in  motion  for 
the  purpose  of  pleasing,  instructing,  and  persuading. 
Before  you  cast  about  for  the  order  in  which  you  are 
to  oifer  your  thoughts,  you  must  already  have  precon- 
ceived a  general  outline  of  your  subject :  the  next 
process  is,  in  that  outline,  to  mark  the  place  of  your 


13(>  Didactic  Pieces. 

principal  ideas ;  your  mbject  will  tlien  becoine  c^» 
cumrcribed,  and  yuu  wiil  see  its  extent. 

This  plan  will  be  j^oiir  ground-w ork  j  it  will  sup- 
port you,  tiii'cct  you,  regulate  the  movements  of  your 
mind,  and  submit  them  to  the  laws  of  method.  A\'ith- 
out  it,  the  best  speaker  will  go  astray,  his  progress 
will  he  unguided,  and  the  irregular  beauties  of  his 
speech  w  ill  be  at  the  mercy  of  hazard*  How  brilliant 
soever  the  colours  Ije  em])loys  may  be,  the  disposition 
of  the  picture  will  ruin  the  whole  eifect ;  and  tlie 
speaker  may  be  admired,  but  his  genius  v.  ill  most  cer- 
iainly  be  suspected. 

"Wliy  are  the  works  of  Nature  so  perfect  ?  says  Buf- 
fon ;  it  is  because  every  "work  is  a  whole,  or  has  its 
full  plenitude  ;  it  is  because  she  never  deviates  from 
one  eternal  plan.  She  prepares  hi  silence  the  seeds 
of  all  her  productions :  in  one  bold  stroke  alone,  she 
hits  ofl"  the  primitive  form  of  every  living  being  ;  she 
unfolds  and  bestows  perfection  on  it  by  a  perpetual 
motion,  and  in  a  prescribed  time»  The  human  mind 
cannot  create,  it  can  produce  nothing  until  it  has  been 
i'ertiliz'd  by  experience  and  meditation  :  its  notions 
are  the  seeds  of  its  productions ;  but  if  it  im.itates 
the  progress  and  labour  of  Natiue  ;  if  it  rise  on  the 
wings  of  contemplation,  to  the  most  sublime  truths ; 
if  it  connect  them,  link  them,  and  form  them  into  one 
grand  w  hole  by  the  powers  of  retiection  ;  it  will  raise 
a  monument  of  fame  on  an  immortal  foundation. 

It  is  for  V  ant  of  a  plan,  and  for  not  having  allowed 
Eeflection  to  dwell  long  enough  on  his  subject,  that  a 
man  of  abilities  finds  himself  embarrassed,  and  knows 
not  where  or  how  to  begin.  He  at  once  perceives  a 
vast  number  of  ideas ;  as  he  has  made  no  compari- 
son betwixt  them,  nor  established  any  subordination 
among  them,  there  is  nothing  that  determines  him  to 
give  the  preference  to  one  more  tlian  to  the  otlier ;  he, 
therefore,  stands  a  victim  of  his  own  per])lexity. 
JBut  when  he  shall  have  laid  down  a  plan  to  himself; 
i^hen  once  he  shall  have  gathered  together,  and  put 
in  order,  every  idea  essential  to  his  subject,  the  work 


Didactic  Pieces.  137 

>viU  have  arrived  at  the  pohit  ol"  maluriiy  ;  lie  \vill 
be  eager  to  give  it  birth;  thought  wiil  Fuccttd 
thouglit,  M  ith  ease  and  pleasure  la  Jiimself  ;  Ins  t^tyle 
MilJ  be  natural  and  kicid ;  the  dt  light  he  ie«ls  will 
beget  a  warmth,  which  will  glow  tin- ;ugh  all  Jiis  pH- 
riods,  and  give  hfe  to  every  expre?sioji ;  Id?  <iiiia;atioa 
Avili  increase;  thetonts  ol  liis  voice  will  swtii  ;  every 
object  Mill  become  pron;incnt :  and  tentiniei;t,  iri  u»:i- 
son  with  p(rspicuity,  will  render  the  discourse  buth 
interesting  and  luminous. 

Weigh  your  own  feelings,  examine  the  emoii  'ns 
of  otheip,  endeavour  to  di'-cr.ver,  in  every  occur- 
rence of  life,  the  spring  of  hum.in  pafhionp,  i-tu('>  to 
imitate  nature,  and  with  the  g' nius  f.iid  judgment 
you  are  bkssed  with,  you  cannot  but  slic(  ^'f?  i-^  a 
great  ppealier. 

One  word  more,  and  I  quit  the  subject ;  uccu-iom 
yourself,  even  in  ^'our  c<jmn;on  convcrsaiio?i,  to  link 
your  tlv  ughtsto  one  anolh-.'r  ;  utter  none  without  % 
momentary  exandnation,  whether  it  is  sound  and  fit 
or  not :  justne-s  and  precision  will  glide  from  your 
conversation  into  your  fir.'t  little  e.si?ays,  ar;d  IVom 
tliese  into  greater  ;  and  when,  at  last,  nature  shaiJ 
have  attained  its  maturity,  and  occasion  toui^hes  tiie 
spring  of  genius,  all  the  powers  of  your  mind  will 
burst  into  harmonious  motion. 


SECTION  XIV. 

Ancient  Eloquence. 

It  will  not,  I  think,  bo  pretended,  that  any  of  our 
preachers  have  often  occasion  to  aridress  jra;;re  saija- 
cious,  learned,  or  p">lite  assemblings,  tlinii  those 
\vhich  were  composed  of  the  Roman  senate,  er  the 
Athenian  people,  in  tht-ir  most  en !  15^  hi  en  d  tim  :s» 
liut  it  is  well  known  what  gieat  stress  the  Hiost cek- 


138  Dlduiilc  Pieces. 

bratcd  orators  of  those  times  laid  on  action,  how  ex- 
Gceding'  imperfect  they  reckoned  eloquence  without  il; 
and  what  wonders  they  performed  with  its  assistenct', 
performed  upon  the  i,'reatest,  firmest,  most  sensible, 
and  most  elegant  spirits  the  world  ever  saw  ;  it  were 
easy  to  throw  together  a  number  of  common  place 
quotations,  in  support,  or  illustration  ol"  this,  and 
almost  every  other  remark  that  can  be  made  upon  tha 
present  subject. 

But  as  that  would  lead  us  beyond  the  intention  of 
this  paper,  we  need  only  recollect  here  one  simple 
fact,  which  evory  body  hath  heard  of,  that  whereas 
.Demosthenes  himself  did  not  succeed  in  his  first  at- 
tempts, through  his  having  neglected  to  study  action,, 
he  afterwards  arrived  at  such  a  pitch  in  that  faculty, 
that  when  the  people  of  Rhodes  expressed  in  high 
terms  their  admiration  of  his  famous  oration  for  Ctc- 
tiphon,  upon  hearing  it  read  with  a^  V£ry  sweet  and 
strong  voice  I»y  ^Eschines,  whose  banishment  it  had 
procured,  tbcit  great  and  candid  judge  said  to  th:  m, 
•♦  How  would  you  have  been  afl'ected,  Jiad  you  seen 
him  speak  it!  For  he  tliat  onh/  hvars  Demosthenes 
loses  much  tlie  ])elter  part  of  tile  oration." — What  an 
honourable  testimony  this,  from  a  vanquished  adver- 
sary, and  such  an  adversary !  What  a  noble  idea  dotli 
it  give  cf  that  worrderfa]  orator's  action  !  I  grasp  it 
^ith  ardour;  I  transport  myself  'm  imagination  to 
old  Athens.  I  mingl.^  with  the  popular  assembly,  T 
beliold  the  liglitning,  1  listen  to  the  thunder  of  De- 
mosthenes. I  feel  my  !)lood  tiirilled,  I  see  the  audi- 
tory tost  and  shaken  iike  some  deep  ft)rest  by  a  mighty 
storm.  I  am  fill(  d  with  wonder  at  such  marvellous 
effects.  I  am  hurried  almost  out  of  myself.  In  a 
little  while,  I  endeavour  to  be  more  recollected. 
Then  I  consider  the  orator's  address.  1  find  the 
t^'hole  IneA'prcssiLh}.  But  nothing  strikes  me  more 
than  his  action.  I  perceive  the  various  passions  he 
would  inspire  rising  in  hijn  by  turns,  and  working 
from  the  depth  of  liis  frame.  Now  he  glows  with 
the  iov{j  of  the  public  ;  now  he  flames  with  indignr.- 


Didactic  riecc^.  133 

tion  at  ils  enemies ;  then  lie  swells  with  ditdain  of  it>> 
false,  indolent,  or  inlercfitcd  friends;  anon  lie  melts 
with  j^rief  for  its  mteforlunes ;  and  now  he  turns  pale 
n  ilh  fear  of  yet  greater  ones.  Every  featiu'e,  nerve, 
and  circumstance  atjoiit  him,  is  intensely  animated  : 
each  almost  seems  as  if  it  would  speak.  I  disc<^rnhis 
inmost  soul,  I  see  it  as  only  clad  in  tome  thin  transpa- 
rent vehicle.  It  is  all  on  fire.  1  wonder  no  longer 
at  the  elfects  of  such  eloquence:  I  only  wonder  at 
tJisir  cause.  '* 


SECTION  XV. 
Women  polish  and  improve  Socltiij. 

Ajuoxg  tlie  innumerahlc  ties  hy  which  mankind  arc 
draM  n  and  liekl  together,  may  be  fairly  rcckonctl  that 
lOve  of  praise,  which  perluij)s  is  the  earliest  passion  of 
human  beings.     It, is  wonderful  how  soon  cliildreu. 
begin  to  look  out  for  notice,  and  fur  consequence- 
To  attract  mutual  regards  by  mutual  services,  is  one 
chief  aim,  and  one  important  operation,  of  a  princi- 
ple, which  I  should  be  sorry  ta  think  that  any  of  you 
had  outlived.     No  sooner  do  the  social  aifecl ions  un- 
fold themselves,  than  youth  appear  ambitious  to  de- 
serve the  approbation  of  those  around  them.     Their 
desires  of  this  kind  are  more  lively,  as  their  disposi- 
tions are  more  ingenious.     Of  those  boys  who  disco- 
ver the  greatest  ardour  to  obtain,  by  their  capacity, 
their  spirit,  or  their  g:enerosity,  tlie  esteem  of  tbeir 
companions,  it  may  Ix'  commonly  o])scrved,  that  they 
shoot  up  into  the  most  valuable  cliaracters. 

Eagerness  for  th^  admir;ition  of  scJiool  fellows  and 
others,  w  ithout  distinction  of  sexes,  is  ftlt  at  first : 
but  when,  in  process  of  time,  the  bosom  becomes 
scnsilile  to  that  distinction,  it  liegiiis  to  bf.iit  with  a 
peculiar  anxiety  to  please  the  female  part  of  your  ac- 


140  Didaclic  Pieces. 

qiiaintancp.  The  '^miles,  the  applause,  the  attach- 
niCiit  of  Youiit^  Women,  you  n  jw  considtir  as  confer- 
ring' felicity  of  a  more  intccestinsf  nature ;  and  to  se- 
cure sucli  liappiness,  is  from  henceforth  an  ohjcct 
that  incites  and  inlluenci's  you  on  a  thousand  occa- 
sions. By  an  increasing  fuctptibiiity  to  the  attrac- 
tions of  the  softer  sex  you  are  carried  more  and 
inore  into  their  company ;  and  there,  my  brotheis, 
your  hearts  and  manners,  your  tastes  and  pursuits, 
receive  very  often  a  direction  that  remains  ever  afttr, 
and  that  will  probably  decide  your  destiny  through 
the  whole  of  your  existence. — 1  am  aware,  indeed, 
that  to  underrate  their  importance,  and  cultivate  tlieir 
commerce  only  as  subservient  to  c;;nvenicnce,  amuse- 
ment, or  voluptuousness,  is  common  among  the  ig- 
norant, the  petulant,  and  the  protligate  of  our  sex : 
but,  happy  as  I  have  been  in  the  conversation  of  ma- 
ny worthy  and  accomplislied  persons  of  the  other,  I 
Mould  willingly,  if  possii)le,  prevent  your  adopting  a 
system  alike  ungenerous  and  false. 

It  is  certain,  that  savages,  and  those  who  are  ])ut 
little  removed  from  their  condition,  have  seldom  be- 
liavcd  to  women  w  ith  mucli  respect  or  tenderness.  On 
the  other  hand,  it  is  known,  that  in  civiliz* d  nations 
tiiey  have  ever  been  objects  of  lioth ;  that,  in  the 
most  heroic  states  of  antiquity,  their  judgment  was 
often  honr^ured  as  ihe  standard,  and  their  niffrages 
often  sought  as  the  reward  of  merit ;  and  though  in 
those  states  tlic  allurement  of  feminine  softness  Avas 
perhaps  not  always  sufficif-nlly  understood,  owing  pro- 
bably to  that  passion  for  public  interests,  and  exten- 
siv^e  fame,  which  seems  to  have  overpowered  all  rath- 
er- emotions;  it  mu'^t  yet  bp  acknowledged,  that  the 
Ladies  of  ancient  days  frequently  jv'^ssesped  a  w  on- 
d.rful  inGu'nce  in  what  concerned  the  i>o!iticol  wel- 
fare, and  private  afTections,  of  tlie  people  to  whom 
they  belonged. 

But  say,  my  friends,  does  it  not  reflect  some  his- 
tr*^  on  the  fair  sex,  that  th'ir  talents  and  virtu"=  have 
ttill  been  most  revered  in  periods  of  the  greatest  re- 


Didactic  ricccs.  14d 

nown  f  And  tell  me,  I  beseccli  you,  what  age  or 
country,,  distinguished  in  the  annals  of  fame,  lias  not 
received  a  part  of  that  di-tinctim  fiom  the  numbers 
of  women,  w  horn  it  produced  cons^jjicuous  for  their 
virtues  and  their  talents  ?  Look  at  this  in  which  ym 
live,  does  it  not  derive  a  very  considerable  share  of  its 
reputation  from  the  female  pens  that  (niinently  adorn 
it?  Look  into  the  history  of  the  world  at  larger 
do  not  you  find,  that  the  female,  sex  have,  in  a  variety 
ef  ways,  contributed  largely  to  many  of  it?  most  im- 
portant events?  Look  into  the  great  machine  of  so- 
ciety, as  it  moves  before  you :  do  not  you  perceive, 
that  they  are  still  among  its  principal  springs?  Do 
not  their  characters  and  manners  deeply  aiiect  the  pas- 
sions of  men,  the  uiterests  of  education^  and  those 
domestic  scenes,  where  so  much  of  life  is  past,  and 
with  which  its  happiness  or  misery  is  so  intimately 
blended  ?  Consult  your  ow n  expeiience,  and  conf^'^s^ 
tvhether  you  are  not  touched  I)y  almost  every  thing 
they  do,  or  say,  or  look;  confess,  whether  thtir  very 
foibles  and  follies  do  not  often  interest,  and  sometimes 
please  you  ? 

There  cannot,  I  am  persuaded,^  be  many  worse 
symptoms  of  degeneracy,  in  an  eniigjitened  age,  than 
a  growing  indiilerence  about  tlie  regards  of  reputal)le 
women,  and  the  fahhionabie  propen-ity  to  l^sen  the 
sex  in  general.  Where  this  is  the  case,  thi  decencies 
of  life,  the  softness  of  love,  ths  sweets  of  friendshipj 
the  nameless  tender  charities  that  pervade  and  unite 
the  most  virtuous  form  of  cultiv-ited  society,  are  not 
likely  to  be  held  in  high  estimatit^n  ;  and  when  these 
fall  into  contempt,  whit  is  there  left  to  polish,  L.^.^- 
nianize,  or  delight  mankind  ? 


14^2  Didactic  Pieces. 

SECTION  XVI. 

Fondness  for  Fashion  injxirious. 

As  it  is  prnbahle  that  most  of  you  will,  after  the 
confinement  of  the  Fchool,  of  the  college,  of  an  ap- 
prenticesliip,  at  of  whatever  other  early  study,  pass 
niiich  of  your  time  in  the  company  of  women,  it  deep- 
ly imports  you  to  consider,  with  what  sort  of  women 
you  should  associate.  Tlie  infinite  mi':cliiefs  attend- 
ant on  comnuinieation  with  those  miserable  females, 
who  have  forfeited  Iheir  honour,  I  will  not  attempt  to 
relate.  At  present  I  will  take  it  for  granted,  that  the 
sons  of  Reason  should  converse  oniy  with  the  daugh- 
ters of  Virtue. 

Of  these  last,  the  number  is  greater  than  many  of 
you  have  been  told ;  much  greater  than  bad  men,  who 
judge  from  bad  samples,  will  ever  be  persuaded  to  be- 
lieve ;  and  even  greater  than  would  l>e  readily  ex- 
pected by  the  candid  and  virtuous  themselves,  were 
they  to  take  their  estimate  from  the  general  appear- 
ance of  women  in  public  life,  instead  of  those  private 
scenes  Avhere  show  and  noise  are  excluded,  where  the 
flutter  of  fashion  is  forgotten  in  the  silent  discharge 
of  domestic  duties,  and  where  females  of  real  value 
are  more  solicitous  to  be  amiable  and  accomplished, 
than  allurmg  and  admired- 

Litttle,  indeed,  do  those  women  consult  either  their 
own  interest,  or  the  reputation  of  their  sex,  who  enter 
eagerly  into  the  bustle  of  the  mode,  obtrude  themselves 
on  the  gaze  of  the  glittering  throng,  and  sacrifice  the 
decent  reserves,  and  intellectual  attainment^,  by  Avhich 
men  of  sentiment  and  delicacy  are  most  taken,  to  the 
passion  for  dress,  and  visiting,  and  splendour,  and 
prattling,  and  cards,  and  assemblies,  and  masquerades 
without  end. 

The  coxcombs  of  the  age,  may  be  caught  by  such 
arts  of  display,  as  much  as  those  can  l)e  who  are  so 
generally   captivated    with  themselves.     They,   no 


Didactic  Pieces.  Ik^ 

doubt,  Avill  be  flattered  uitliuhat  Ihcy  suppose  to  he 
an  oii'ering  presented  at  their  shrine,  a  price  paid  for 
their  adjiiiration.  But,  depend  upon  it,  my  sisters, 
those  men  Avhf)  are  formed  to  he  agreeable  compan- 
ions, faithful  friends,  and  good  husbands,  will  not  be 
very  forward  to  chuse  their  associates  and  partners 
for  life,  from  the  Haunting  train  of  vanity,  or  the  insip- 
id  circles  of  dissipation.  Nor  av  ill  it  always  be  very 
easy  to  convince  them,  that  while  the  optli  theatre  of 
the  world  exhibits  so  many  trivial  and  insipid  cliarac- 
trrs  of  the  female  sex,  its  more  retired  situations 
abound  with  women  of  discretion  and  siguiiicance. 

For  my  own  sh;uT,  I  will  confess,  that  1  ^hould  not 
have  thought  so  favourably  in  general  concerning  the 
fair  part  of  the  creation,  as  1  now  think,  had  I  formed 
luy  opinions  on  this  subject  in  places  of  gay  resort  ; 
where  simplicity,  softness,  a  sedate  carriage,  and  ra- 
tional conversation,  must  usually  give  way  to  the 
boasted  tone,  and  brilliant,  but  illusive  hgure  of  the 
society  in  voguf ,  which  seems  to  me  a  composition  of 
frivolous  talk,  fantastic  manners,  expensive  outside, 
servile  imitation  of  the  mode,  incessant  amusement, 
ruinous  gaming,  and  eternal  di<-guise. 

^lay  I  venture  farther,  and  acknoMledge  my  as- 
tonishment, when  I  have  discovered  that  some  sensi- 
ble and  deserving  women,  who  in  the  country  de- 
lighted all  that  came  near  them,  by  a  style  and  de- 
portment perfectly  reasonal)le  and  highly  eng;iging, 
yet  appeared  so  forgetful  of  themselves  the  raomejit 
they  plunged  isito  the  diversi  .ns  arid  tumults  of  the 
town-  Their  heads  turned  round  in  the  whirl  of 
fashionable  lile  ;  and  their  hearts  which  went  forth 
to  their  friends  in  tlie  qpiet  of  retreat,  shrunk  and 
vanished  ou!  of  sight,  in  scenes  where  they  appre- 
hended that  sentiment,  afT'clion,  confidence,  would 
pjobably  be  o})j'cts  of  dcri^i  n.  So  then,  liadies, 
you  could  resign  those  sweetest  pleasures  of  the  soul, 
for  the  rej)utation  of  appearing  modish  ;  you  could 
bury  your  better  feelings,  and  relinquish  for  veeks 
and  for  months,  your  more  respectable  pursuits,  to 


141'  Didactic  Pieces. 

mix  familiarly  and  habitually  with  the  herd  of  infe- 
rior beings,  that' run  mad  after  superficial  amuse- 
jtieiits,  and  the  poorest  objects  of  low-soukd  ambi- 
tion. 

Do  we  mean,  tliat  you  ouglit  to  shut  yourselves 
up  from  aM  the  resorts  af  what  is  called  Genteel  Com- 
pany, w'liich,  to  say  tiie  truth,  is  often  but  another 
narat'  for  well  dressed  trifiers  ?  We  do  not  mean,  we 
do  not  wish  it.  There  are  situations  and  connexions 
which  would  rend'r  it  improper.  To  minds  capable 
of  reficctioiJ,  the  pageant,  as  it  passes  in  review,  may 
occasion  many  observations  on  the  emptiness  and 
perturbation  of  all  but  piety,  worth,  and  heart- felt 
enjoyment.  Nor  is  it  altogether  imposible,  that  a 
more  con-ect  appearance,  a  more  composed  address, 
friendly  hints  dropped  by  accident,  improving  re- 
mariv's  suggested  by  good  sense,  ^\  ithout  the  affecta- 
tion of  unseasonable  gravity,  may  sometimes  leave 
useful  impressions  where  they  were  least  expected. 
We  only  complain,  that  the  friends  of  virtue  should 
ever  be  so  far  entangled  in  the  maze  of  modern  im- 
pertinence, as  to  be  afraid  of  living  principally  to 
th'-m:=elves,  to  one  another,  and  to  the  noblest  puj'po- 
scs  of  their  being. 


SECTION  XYII. 

Remarks  on  Frcnching. 

TfiR  Preacher,  above  all  other  public  spetiterf^, 
ousrht  to  labonr  to  eniich  and  adorn,  in  the  mostmas- 
t'.riy  manner,  his  addresses  to  mankind ;  his  views 
Ixing  the  motit  important.  What  great  pnint  has  the 
])iayer  to  gain  ?  Why,  to  <lraw  an  audience  to  the 
theatre.  The  piead-T  at  the  bar,  if  he  lays  before  the 
judges  and  jury,  the  Xvvn  state  of  the  case,  and  gains 
the  cau^e  of  his  client,  which  may  be  an  estate,  or  at 


Didactic  rieces.  14»5 

juost  a  life,  has  accompJislied  his  end.  And  of  the 
speaker  in  a  legislature,  the  very  utmost  that  can  be 
said,  is  tliat  the  good  of  his  country  may,  in  a  great 
measure,  depend  upon  his  tongue. 

But  the  infinitely  important  object  of  preaching,  is 
the  reformation  of  niankind,  upon  A\hich  depends 
their  happiness  in  this  \\orI(l,  and  throughout  the 
>\hole  of  tlieir  being.  And  liere,  if  the  preacher 
possesses  talents  and  uidustry,  what  a  field  of  elo- 
<j[uence  is  open  before  hini !  The  universal  and  most 
important  interests  of  mankind  !  far  bt-yond  those  for 
w  hich  the  thunder  of  Demosthenes  rolled  in  Athens ! 
far  beyond  those  for  \\  hich  Cicero  shook  the  senate- 
house  of  Rome.  It  is  for  l>im  to  rv>usehis  auditors 
to  a  vahant  resistance  of  the  most  formidable  slavery, 
of  tJie  tyranny  which  is  set  up  in  a  man's  own  bosom ; 
and  to  exhort  his  hearers  to  maintain  the  liberty,  the 
life,  and  the  hopes  of  the  whole  human  race  for  ever. 

Of  what  consequence  is  it  then,  that  the  art  of 
preaching  be  carried  to  such  perfection,  that  all  may 
be  drawn  to  places  of  public  instruction,  and  that 
th<»se  ^vho  attend  may  receive  benefit .'  And  if  so  im- 
portant a  part  of  preaching  be  delivery,  how  necessa^ 
ary  must  he  the  study  of  delivery !  That  delivery  is 
one  of  the  most  important  parts  of  public  instruction, 
is  manifest  from  this,  that  very  indifierent  matter  well 
delivered,  will  make  a  considerable  impression  ;  while- 
bad  utterance  never  fails  to  defeat  the  whole  eifect  of 
the  noblest  composition  ever  produced. 

AV'hilc  exorbitant  appetite,  and  unruly  passion 
within,  while  evil  solicitation,  with  alluring  example 
"without;  while  tliese  invite  and  ensnare  the  frail  and 
thoughtless  into  guilt,  shall  virtue  and  religion  hold 
forth  no  charms  to  engage  votaries  ?  Pleasure  decks 
herself  out  with  rich  attire.  Soft  are  her  looks,  and 
melting  is  the  sweetness  of  her  voice.  And  must  re- 
ligion present  herself  with  every  disadvantage  ?  Must 
she  appear  quite  unadorned  ?  What  chance  can  she 
then  have,  in  competition  with  an  enemy  sG  mnch 
better  furnished  with  every  necessary  invitation  and 
N 


^46  Didactic  Pieces. 

allurej-ucni?  Alas !  our  preachers  do  not  address  iii- 
noccnts  in  paradise  ;  but  thoughtless  and  often  habi- 
tuated sinners.  Mere  cold  explaining  will  have  but 
little  eii'ect  on  such.  Weak  is  the  hold  wliich  reason 
has  on  most  men.  Few  of  men  have  able  heads  ;  but 
all  have  heart?,  and  ali  hearts  may  ]>e  touched,  if  the 
f^peaker  is  master  of  his  art.  The  business  is  not  so 
much  to  open  the  understanding,  as  to  warm  the 
heart.  There  are  few,  comparatively  speaking,  who 
do  not  know  their  duty.  To  allure  them  to  the  d&ing 
of  it  is  the  dilHculty.  This  w  ill  never  be  eiiected  by 
cold  reasoing,  either  read  or  delivered  in  such  a  man- 
ner as  to  disgust,  or  lull  the  audjtnce  asleep.  Can  it 
he  supposed,  that  an  audience  is  to  be  narnicd  to  the 
love  of  virtue,  by  a  ro7fUhougli  learned  harangue,  ei- 
ther ill  read,  or,  w  hat  is  w  orse,  wretchedly  delivered  ? 
Can  it  be  supposed,  that  a  preacher  w  ill  win  the  affec- 
tions of  liis  hearers,  whilst  he  neglects  all  the  natural 
means  for  w  orking  upon  their  passions  7  Will  he 
t'indle  in  tlum  that  burning  zeal  w hich  suits  the  most 
important  of  all  subjects,  by  talking  to  them  "» ith  all 
the  coolness  of  a  stoic  philosopher,  of  the  terrors  of  the 
Lord,  of  the  worm  that  never  dies,  and  the  fire  that 
is  not  quenched,  and  of  future  glory,  honour,  and  im- 
mortality, of  everlasting  kingdoms  and  heavenly 
thrones  ? 

Did  preachers  labour  to  acquire  a  masterly  delive- 
ry, places  of  pul)lic  instruction  would  be  crowded,  as 
well  as  places  of  public  diversion.  Rakes  and  infi- 
dels, merely  to  show  their  taste,  would  freqent  them. 
Could  all  frequent  them,  and  none  i)rofit  ?  It  is  not 
fupposable,  l)ut  some  who  came  to  scoff,  might  remain 
to  pray.  That  such  a  manner  might  be  acqxiired, 
there  is  no  reason  to  doubt,  if  preachers  were  only  to 
bestow  due  pains  to  obtain  it.  ^Vhat  time  ami  la- 
bour is  requisite  to  acquire  even  a  tolerabls  know- 
ledge of  the  Latin  language  ?  Were  only  one  halfol 
these  spent  upon  the  art  of  delivery,  m  hat  an  astonish- 
ing degree  of  improvement  would  take  place  in  all 
kinds  of  public  speaking]     Vv^hat  infinite  advantage 


Didactic  Pieces.  H7 

would  accrue  to  pulpit  oratory !  hei  us  only  reflect 
for  a  moment,  upon  the  time  necessary  to  acquire  a 
competent  knowledge  of  any  of  the  mechanical  arts. 
A  taylor,  a  shoe-maker,  or  a  blacksmith,  must  be  un- 
der a  master  five,  generally  seven  year?,  before  he  is 
capable  of  setting  up  for  himself.  Are  these  arts 
more  ditlicult  to  attain,  than  the  art  of  oratory  ?  And 
yet,  the  preacher  goes  into  the  pulpit  at  once,  without 
having  had  one  lesson,  or  article  of  instruction  in  this 
part  of  his  art,  towards  gaining  the  end  of  preaching. 
\Vhat  could  be  imagined  more  elegant,  if  entertain- 
ment alone  were  sought ;  what  more  useful,  if  the. 
gootl  of  mankind  were  the  object,  than  the  sacred 
function  of  preaching,  properly  performed  ?  Were 
tlie  most  interesting  of  all  subjects  delivered  to  listen- 
ing crowds,  with  that  digniii/  which  becomes  a  teach- 
er of  divine  truth,  and  with  that  energy^  which 
would  show  that  the  pre^icher  spoke  from  his  own 
heart,  and  meant  to  s^)€ak  to  the  hearts  of  his  hear- 
ers, A\hat  eflVcts  might  not  follow  ? 

It  has  been  observed,  "  that  mankind  are  not  wood 
or  stone  ;  that  they  are  undoubtedly  capable  of  being 
roused  and  startled ;  tliat  they  may  be  drawn  and 
allured.  The  voice  of  an  able  preacher,  thundering 
out  the  divine  threatening?  against  vice,  would  be  in 
the  ear  of  the  offender,  as  if  he  heard  the  sound  of  the 
List  trumpet  summoning  the  dead  to  judgment.  And 
tlie  gentle  call  of  mercy,  encouraging  the  terrified  and 
almo?t  despairing  penitent,  to  lookup  to  his  offended 
heavenly  Father,  would  seem  as  the  song  of  angels. 
A  whole  rauilitude  might  be  lifted  to  the  skies.  The 
world  of  spirits  might  be  opened  to  the  eyes  of  their 
minds.  The  terrors  of  that  punishment  which  awaits 
vice  ;  the  glories  of  that  state  to  which,  through  di- 
vine favoui',  the  pious  will  be  raised,  might  be,  by  a 
powerful  preacher,  rendered  present  to  their  under- 
standings, with  such  conviction,  as  would  jnake  inde- 
lible impressions  upon  their  hearts,  and  work  a  sub- 
staolial  reform  in  their  lives.*' 


C  H  A  P.  IV. 

DESCIilPTIFE  PIECES, 

SECTION  I. 

Memarkahle  Faults  of  bad  Speakers* 

Lruovicus  Cressollius,  a  Jesuit  of  Brittany,  who 
wrote  a  treatise  upon  the  j)erfect  action  and  pronun- 
ciation of  an  orator,  published  at  Paris  in  JG^O,  gives 
the  following  description  of  the  delivery  of  a  public 
speaker,  whose  style  was  polished  and  whose  coraposi' 
tion  was  learned. 

"  When  he  turned  himself  to  the  left,  he  spoke  a 
few  words  accompanied  by  a  moderate  gesture  of  the 
hand,  then  bending  to  the  right,  he  acted  the  same 
part  over  again ;  then  back  again  to  the  left,  and  pre- 
sently to  the  right,  almost  at  an  equal  and  measured 
interval  of  time,  he  worked  himself  up  to  his  usual 
gesture,  and  his  oiie  kind  of  movement :  you  could 
compare  hiiti  only  to  the  blindfolded  Babylonian  oxen 
going  forward  and  returning  back  by  the  same  path." 
Th€  Jesuit  was  so  disgusted,  that  he  shut  his  eyes, 
but  even  so  he  could  not  get  over  the  disagreeable 
impression  of  the  speaker's  manner.  He  coneiudes, 
♦'  I  therefore  give  judgment  against,  and  renounce  all 
such  kind  of  orators."  In  another  place  he  has  made 
an  enumeration  of  the  most  remarkable  faults  of  bad 
speakers,  it  is  peculiarly  spirited  and  characteristic. 

"  Some  hold  their  heads  immoveable,  and  turned 
to  one  side,  as  if  they  were  made  of  Imrn ;  others  stare 
uith  their  eyes  as  horribly,  as  if  they  intended  to 
frighten  every  one ;  some  are  continually  twisting  their 
mouths  and  working  their  chinsj  while  they  are  speak- 
ing, as  if,  all  the  time,  they  were  cracking  nuts ;  some 
like  the  apostate  Julian,  breathe  insult,  express  in  their 
''ountenance  contempt  and  impudence.     Others  as  if 


Dcs  criptke  Pieces,  i  49 

they  personated  the  fictitious  heroes  in  a  tragedy,  gape 
enormously,  and  extend  their  jaMs  as  Avidely  as  if  they 
Avere  going  to  swallow  up  every  body  ;  above  all,  when 
they  bellow  with  fury,  they  scatter  their  foam  about., 
and'  threaten  with  contracted  brow,  and  eyes  like  Sa- 
turn. 

These,  as  if  they  ^rere  playing  some  game  are  con- 
tinually makhig  motions  ^^•ith  tlieir  fingers,  and  by  the 
extraordinary  working  their  of  hands,  endeavour  to 
form  in  the  air,  I  may  almost  say,  all  the  figures  of 
the  mathematics.  Those  on  the  contrary,  have  hands 
so  ponderous  and  so  fastened  down  by  terror,  that 
they  could  more  easily  move  beams  of  timber  ;  others 
labour  so  with  their  elbows,  that  it  is  evident,  either 
that  (hey  had  been  formerly  shoe-makers  themselves, 
or  had  lived  in  no  other  society  but  that  of  coblers. 
Some  are  so  unsteady  in  the  motions  of  their  bodies, 
that  they  seem  to  be  speaking  out  of  a  cock-boat ;  oth- 
ers again  are  so  un wieldly  and  uncouth  in  their  mo- 
tions that  you  would  think  them  to  be  sacks  of  tow 
painted  to  look  like  men.  I  have  seen  some  who  jump- 
ed on  the  platform,  and  capered  nearly  in  measure ; 
men  that  exhibited  tjie  fullers  dance,  and  as  the  old 
poet  says,  expressed  their  wit  with  their  feet.  But  who 
in  a  short  compass  is  able  to  enumerate  all  the  faults  of 
gesture,  and  all  the  absurdities  of  bad  delivery  ?" 


SECTION  IL 

On  Female  Attractions 

Flavella  has  a  multitude  of  charms,  She  is  sensi- 
ble, ailable,  modest,  and  good  humoured.  She  is  tall 
without  being  awkward,  and  as  straight  as  an  arrow. 
She  has  a  clear  complexion,  fively  ey^-s,  a  pretty  mouth, 
and  white  even  teeth;  and  will  answer  the  descrip- 
tion which  any  rhyming  lover  can  give  of  the  mistress 
of  bis  affections,  after  having  ransacked  heaven  and 
Nl 


lo&  JJescrlpiioe  ricccSi 

earth  for  similes;  yet  I  cannot  admire  her.  She 
wants,  in  my  0])inion,  that  nameless  something,  \v]iich 
is  far  more  attractive  than  beauty.  It  is,  in  short,  a 
peculiar  manner  of  saying  the  most  insignificant  things, 
and  doing  the  most  trifling  actions,  \\hich  captivates 
us,  and  takes  our  hearts  by  surjjrise. 

Though  I  am  a  strenuous  advocate  for  a  modest, 
decent,  and  unaifected  deportment  in  the  fair  sex,  I 
would  not,  however,  have  a  fine  woman  altogether  in- 
sensible of  her  i>ersonaI  charms,  for  she  would  then  be 
as  insipid  as  Fiavella.  1  would  only  have  her  con- 
scious enough  of  them,  to  behave  with  modest  free- 
dom, and  to  converse  with  fluency  and  spirit. — 
When  a  woman  stalks  majestically  into  a  room,  \\\\h. 
the  haughty  air  of  a  first-rate  beauty,  and  expects  ev- 
ery one  who  sees  her  to  admire  her,  my  indignation 
rises,  and  I  get  away  as  fast  as  I  can,  in  order  to  enjoy 
the  conversation  of  an  easy,  good-humoured  creature, 
wh»  is  neither  Ijeautiful  nor  conceited  enough  to  l)e 
troublesome,  and  who  is  as  willing  to  give  pleasure, 
as  desirous  to  receive  it. 


SECTION  III. 

Flirtilla  and  Amelia. 

FiiKTiLL.v  is  a  gay,  lively,  giddy  girl ;  she  is  what 
the  world  calls  handsome ;  she  dances  and  sings  ad- 
mirably, has  something  to  say  upon  every  fashion, 
person,  play,  opera,  masquerade,  or  public  exhibition, 
and  has  an  easy  floNV  of  words,  that  pass  upon  the 
multitude  for  wit.  In  short,  the  whole  end  of  her  ex- 
istence seems  to  be  centeredjin  a  love  of  company  end 
the  fashion.  No  wonder  it  is,  that  she  is  noticed  on- 
ly by  the  less  worthless  part  of  the  world. 

Amelia,  the  lovely  Amelia,  makes  liome  her  greatest 
feappiness.     Nature  has  not  bccu  so  hvish  of  her 


Dcscnijtivc  Pieces.  1.51 

charms,  as  to  her  si«ter ;  Init  slie  has  a  soft  pleasing- 
countenance,  that  plainly  indicates  the  goodness  of  her 
heart.  Her  person  is  not  striking  at  first,  but  as  it 
becomes  familiar  to  the  beholder,  is  more  so  than  that 
01  Ijer  sister.  For  her  modest  deportment,  and  her 
sweet  disposition,  will  daily  gain  ground  on  any  per- 
son who  has  the  happiness  of  conversing  with  her. 
She  reads  much  and  digests  what  she  reads.  Her  se- 
renity of  mind  is  not  to  be  disturbed  by  the  disappoint- 
ment of  a  party  of  pleasure,  nor  her  spirit  agitated  by 
the  shape  of  a  cap,  or  the  colour  of  a  ribbon.  She 
speaks  but  little  when  in  company,  l)ut  when  she  does, 
every  one  is  hush,  and  attends  to  her  as  an  oracle  ;  ancl 
she  has  one  true  fritn<l  with  whom  she  passes  her 
days  in  tranquility.  The  reader  may  easily  judge 
which  of  these  two  sisters  are  tlie  most  amiable. 


.  SECTION  IV. 

Character  of  a  young  Lady. 

Sophia  is  not  a  beauty,  but  in  her  presence  I>eau- 
ties  are  discontented  with  themselves.  At  first,  she 
scarcely  appears  pretty  ;  but  the  more  she  is  beheld, 
the  more  agreeable  she  appears.  She  gains  where 
others  lose,  and  what  she  gains  slie  never  loses.  She  is 
equalled  by  none,  in  a  sweet  expression  of  countenance, 
and  without  dazzling  beholders,  she  interests  them. 
She  loves  drtss,  and  is  a  good  judge  of  it  ;  despises 
finery,  but  dresses  with  peculiar  grace,  mixing  simpli- 
city with  elegance.  Ignorant  she  is  of  what  colours 
are  in  fashion ;  but  knows  well  what  suits  her  com- 
plexion. She  covers  her  beauties  ;  but  so  slightly,  or 
rather  artfully,  as  to  give  play  to  the  imagination. 
She  prepares  herself  for  managing  a  family  of  her  own", 
by  managing  that  of  her  father.  Cookery  is  familiar 
to  her,  with  tlie  price  and  quality  of  provisions ;  and 


io2  Descriptive  Ficvcs. 

t-hc  is  a  ready  accountant.  Her  chief  view,  however,  is 
to  serve  her  mother  unci  Iii;htcn  her  cares.  She  holds 
cleanness  and  neatness  to  he  indi.s|)cnsahle  in  a  woman  ; 
and  tJiat  a  slattern  isdigustini;:,  especially  if  beautiful. 

The  attention  given  to  externals,  does  not  make  licr 
overlook  her  more  material  duties.  Sophia's  under- 
standing IS  soliti,  without  being  i)rofound.  Her  sen- 
sibility is  too  great  for  a  perfect  equality  of  temper  ; 
])ut  her  sweetness  rend  rs  that  inequality  harndess. 
A  liarsh  \\ ord  does  not  make  Jur  angry ;  but  lier 
heart  sw  ells,  and  she  retires  to  disburden  it  by  >veep- 
iiig.  Recalled  by  her  father  and  mother,  she  comes 
at  the  instant,  w  iping  her  eyes  and  appearing  cheer- 
ful. She  sutlers  with  patience  any  \vrong  she  has 
«lone,  and  docs  it  so  cordially  as  to  make  it  appear 
meritorious.  If  slie  happen  to  disoblige  a  compa- 
nion, her  joy  and  caresses  when  restored  to  favour, 
show  the  burden  that  lay  uj)on  her  heart. 

The  love  of  virtue  is  Sopljia's  ruling  passion.  She 
loves  it,  l>ecause  no  other  thing  is  so  lovely  :  she  loves 
it,  because  it  is  the  glory  of  the  female  sex  :  she  loves 
it  as  the  only  road  to  happiness,  misery  being  the  sure 
attendant  of  a  woman  without  virtue :  she  loves  it,  as 
dear  to  her  respetta()Ie  father  and  mother.  These 
sentiments  inspire  her  Avith  a  degree  of  enthusiasm^ 
that  elevates  her  soul,  and  subdues  every  irregular 
appetite. 

Of  the  al>sent  slie  never  talks  but  with  circumspec- 
tion, her  female  acquaintance  especially.  She  ha'^  re- 
marked, that  what  renders  women  prone  to  detraction, 
is  talking  of  their  own  sex  ;  and  that  they  are  more 
equitable  with  respect  to  the  men.  Sophia  never 
talks  of  women,  but  to  express  the  good  she  knows  of 
them :  of  others  she  says  nothing. 

Without  much  knowledge  of  the  world,  she  is  at- 
tentive, obliging,  and  graceful  in  all  s.hc  docs.  A 
good  dispositii>n  does  more  for  her,  than  art  does  for 
others.  She  possesses  a  degree  of  politeness,  which, 
void  of  ceremony,  proceeds  from  a  desire  to  please, 
and  which  consequently  never  fails  to  pleascr 


Descriptive  Pieces.  153 

SECTION  V. 

Sensibility, 

Dear  sensibility !  source  inexhausted  of  all  Ihat^s 
precious  in  our  joys,  or  costly  in  our  sorro\vs !  thou 
cliainest  thy  martyr  down  upon  his  bed  of  straw,  and 
it  is  thou  w  ho  liftest  him  up  to  Heaven.  Eternal 
Fountain  of  our  feelings!  It  is  here  I  trace  thee, 
and  this  is  thy  divinity  which  stirs  within  me :  not, 
that  in  some  sad  and  sickening  m'ni-;nt=,  '  my  soul 
shrinks  back  upon  herself,  and  startles  at  destruction* 
— mere  pomp  of  words! — l)ut  that  I  feti  some  gene- 
rous joys  and  generous  cares  beyond  myself — all 
comes  from  thee,  great,  great  Sensorium  of  the  world ! 
which  vibrates  if  a  hair  of  our  head  but  falls  upon 
the  ground,  in  the  remotest  desert  of  thy  cieation. 

Touched  with  thee,  Eugenius  diaws  my  curtain 
when  I  languish  ;  hears  my  tale  of  symptoms,  and 
blames  the  weather  for  the  disorder  of  his  nerves. 
Thou  givesta  portion  of  it  sometimes  to  the  roughest 
peasant,  who  traverses  the  bleakest  mountain  —He 
finds  the  lacerated  lamb  of  another's  flock.  This  mo- 
ment I  beheld  him  leaning  with  his  head  against  his 
crook,  with  piteous  inclination  looking  douii  upon  it. 
— Oh  !  had  I  come  one  moment  sooner ! — it  bleeds 
to  death — his  gentle  heart  bleeds  with  it. 

Peace  to  thee,  generous  swain !  I  see  thou  walkest 
off  with  anguish — but  thy  joys  shall  balance  it ;  for 
happy  is  thy  cott.Tge,  and  happy  is  the  sharer  of  it» 
and  happy  arc  the  laml^i  that  sport  about  you, 


151i  Descriptive  Pieces^ 

SECTION  VI. 

Liberty  and  Skr^eri/. 

DiscrisE  tliysclf  as  thou  will,  still,  Slavery  ttiii 
thou  art  a  hitler  draught;  and  though  thousands  in 
all  ages  have  been  made  to  drink  of  thee,  thou  art  no 
less  hitter  on  that  account.  It  is  thou,  Liberty,  thrice 
sweet  and  gracious  goddesF,  whom  all  in  public  or 
in  private  worship,  >vhose  taste  is  grateful,  and  ever 

will  be  so,  till  nature  herself  shall  change no  tint 

of  words  can  spot  thy  snowy  mantle,  or  chymic  pou  er 

turn  thy  sceptre  into  iron with  Iheetosuiile  upon 

him  who  eats  his  crust,  the  swain  is  happier  than  his 
monarch,  from  whose  court  thou  art  exiled.  Gra- 
cious Heaven  !  grant  me  but  health,  thou  great  be- 
stow er  of  it,  and  give  me  but  this  fair  goddess  as  my 
coaipanion  ;  and  shower  down  thy  mitres,  if  it  seem 
good  unto  thy  divine  providence,  upon  those  heads 
w  hich  are  aching  for  them. 

Pursuing  these  ideas,  I  sat  down  close  by  my  table^ 
and  leaning  my  head  upon  my  hand,  I  began  to  fi- 
gure to  myself  the  miseries  ol  confinement.  I  was  in 
a  right  frame  of  it,  and  so  I  gave  full  scope  to  my 
imagination. 

I  was  going  to  begin  with  the  millions  of  my  fel- 
low-creatures born  to  no  inheritance  but  slavery ;  but 
finding,  however  affecting  the  picture  was,  that  I 
could  not  bring  it  nearer  me,  and  that  the  nmltitnde 
of  sad  groups  in  it  did  but  distract  me — 

— I  took  a  single  captive,  and  having  first  shut  him 
up  in  a  dungeon,  i  then  looked  through  the  twilight 
of  his  grated  door  to  take  his  picture. 

1  beheld  his  body  half  wastiid  away  with  long  cx- 
pectatrion  and  confinement,  and  felt  wiiat  kind  of  sictc- 
ness  of  the  heart  it  was  whic  i  arises  from  hope  de- 
ferred. Upon  looking  nearer,  I  saw  him  pale  and 
feverish ;  in  thirty  years  the  western  breeze  had  not 
«ncc  fanned  his  })Iood — he  had  s'^en  no  sun,  no  raooB 


Descriptive  Pieces.  155 

hi  all  that  time — nor  had  the  voice  of  friend  or  Idns- 
nian  breathed  through  his  lattice.     His  children 

—  But  here  my  heart  began  to  bleed — and  I  was 
forced  to  go  on  with  another  part  of  the  portrait. 

He  was  sitting  upon  the  ground  upon  a  little  straw, 
in  the  furthest  corner  of  his  dungeon,  which  was  al- 
ternately his  chair  and  bed  :  a  little  calendar  of  small 
sticks  were  laid  at  the  head,  notchsd  all  over  with 
the  dismal  days  and  nights  he  had  passed  there — he 
had  one  of  these  little  sticks  in  his  hand,  and  with  a 
rusty  nail  he  was  etching  another  day  of  misery  to 
add  to  the  heap.  As  I  darkened  the  little  light  he  had, 
he  lifted  up  a  hopeless  eye  towards  the  door,  then 
(Cast  it  down — shook  hi';  head,  and  went  on  with  his 
work  of  aflliction.  I  heard  his  chains  upon  his  legs, 
as  he  turned  his  body  to  lay  his  little  stick  upon  the 
bundle. — He  gave  a  deep  sigh — I  saw  the  iron  enter 
into  his  soul — [  burst  into  tears — I  could  not  sostain 
t4ie  picture  of  confineiiaent  which  my  fancy  had  drawn. 


SECTION  VII. 

The  Palace  of  Pleasure. 

■  MtiTiroFGKT  I  was  suddenly  transported  into  the 
Palace  of  Pleasure,  which  I  had  seen  descri!)ed  the 
evening  before;  where,  in  spite  of  all  the  siiowy 
magnificence  of  the  mansion,  and  all  the  specious 
charms  of  the  goddess,  that  struck  at  first  sight,  I 
discovered,  on  a  closer  attention,  sucli  an  air  of  affec- 
tation and  illusion  in  both,  uitii  i^uch  a  look  of  real 
distress  in  many  of  her  votaries,  ill  concealed  under 
artificial  smile\  as,  j  )incd  to  the  impressions  remain- 
ing on  me  from  my  wiiking  thoughts,  soon  convinced 
me  that  the  whole  was  a  cruel  trick,  to  deceive  and 
ruin  unhappy  men.  Whereupon  I  broke  away  with 
n,  mixture  of  disdaiii  aaid  iiorror,   and  made  Vrhat 


15G  Descriptive  Pieces. 

haste  I  could  from  the  enchanted  valley  in  Avhich  the 
palace  stood.  M'hcn  1  ^vas  got  to  what  1  judged  a 
r^afe  distance,  1  began  to  lament  in  my  oa\  n  mind  the 
misery  of  such  as  are  taken  i^i  the  snares  of  that  wick- 
ed sorceress.  1  had  not  gone  far  on,  «  hen  1  u  as  met 
by  t  hat  good  old  man  >\  horn  I  had  read  of  a  few 
Jumrs  before,  as  giving  directions  to  those  travellers 
tiiat  were  willing  to  hearken  to  him,  and  A\ho  I  re- 
membered was  called  the  Genius  of  Education.  Per- 
ceiving me  in  a  pensive  and  melancholy  mood,  he 
addressed  me  very  kindly,  and  inquired  into  the 
cause  of  it. 

I  told  him  A\  here  I  had-  I)een,  and  what  I  had  ol> 
pcrved,  with  the  sorrowful  reflections  I  could  not  help 
making  on  the  fateof  numberless  deluded  wretches; 
and  added,  that  being  myself  a  young  traveller  in 
quest  of  Happiness,  I  was  uncertain  wliich  way  to 
take,  lie  looked  at  me  with  generous  compassion, 
and  bade  me  follow  him,  promising  to  put  me  into 
the  right  road.  He  conducted  me  along  a  winding 
])ath  up  a  hill,  on  the  top  of  which  dwelt  a  sedate 
and  thoughtful  man,  well  advanced  in  years,  who  he 
told  me  was  a  near  relation  of  his.  He  lodged  in  an 
open  pavilion,  from  whence  there  was  a  prospect  of 
the  Avhole  country  round,  and  appeared,  as  Me-  ap- 
proached, to  sit  in  a  musing  posture,  on  a  chair  of  po- 
lished metal,  whioh  cast  an  uncommon  lustre  about 
him,  and  reflected  strong  and  full  the  images  of 
surrounding  objects.  He  held  in  his  hand  a  large  te- 
lescope of  exquisite  workmanship,  by  the  help  of 
which  the  most  distant  things  might  be  easily  and 
distinctly  discerned. 

I\Iy  guide  informed  me  that  his  name  was  Contem- 
plation; that  he  was  one  of  the  eldest  sons  of  Wis- 
dom, and  that  he  was  posted  on  that  hill  by  the  sove- 
reign of  a  great  adjoining  empire,  called  Virtue,  to  di- 
rect those  who  v\'ere  travelling  towards  her  temple. 
IMethought  his  aspect  was  hale,  serene,  and  piercing. 
There  was  something  majestic  in  his  wrinkles 
and  gray  hairs.     A  transparent  mantle  hun§  loose 


l)-cscripliy)c  rieccs.  15r 

aI?out.  Iiiiu,  on  which  were  wrouglit  some  myslerioiis 
figures  Ihut  1  did  not  und'iiftand. 

i\s  \\c  entered  Jus  pavilion,  he  rose  up  with  an 
erect  and  aMful  mein,  and  came  forward  to  receive  us 
Avith  a  remarkable  comj)osure  and  grace  in  ]iis  mo- 
tions. Being  struck  witli  reverence,  1  heheid  him 
at  first  with  respectful  silence.  But  growing  more 
confident  by  his  encouraging  look--^  I  told  him,  tliat 
having  been  lately  in  the  palace  of  that  vile  enchant- 
ress, Pleasure,  1  was  so  sensible  of  Jier  destructive 
Aviles,  that  I  had  speedily  made  niy  escape,  and  was 
now  in  search  of  ir.ip])iness.  Contemplation  said, 
that  as  he  was  tlie  j)rofessecl  friend  and  guardian  of 
Youth,  if  I  vrould  trust  mysoK  to  his  care,  he  would 
midertake  to  conduct  me.  IlaAing  joyfully  accepted 
his  ofier,  and  being  warmly  recommended  to  him  by 
my  former  guide,  he  took  rnc  gently  by  the  hand, 
and  led  me  to  the  brow  of  t lie  hill,  from  whence  we 
could  descry  a  wide-extended  country  below,  and  tra- 
vellers innumerable  crossing  it  by  a  th'iusand  diii'er- 
cnt  roads.  "  That  large  tract,"  said  he,  «  which 
you  see  towards  the  left  hand,  so  variegated  w  ilh  hill.-?, 
and  dales,  and  groves,  and  streams,  and  so  full  of  in- 
hal)itants  and  travellers,  is  the  dominion  of  that  jww- 
erful  sorceress.  Vice :  for  so  ^]\q  is  propt'riy  c?.iled, 
though  she  assujnes  to  herself  the  more  lionourable 
name  of  Pleasure. 

"  In  that  seemingly  delicious"bo<tom,  wliicii  liesia 
tlie  lieart  of  the  country,  you  see  her  palace,  where 
you  lately  was.  Toconfiim  you  in  your  opiiiion  of 
iier  character,  you  may  observe,"  said  lie,  de;iring 
jne  to  look  through  the  telescope,  "  how  some  of 
those  miserable  wrclciies,  her  votaries,  are  iosi  in 
the  mazes  of  the  wood  which  grows  hard  by:  how 
others  of  them  wander  tip  and  down  from  one  bow- 
er of  the  garden  to  anotiier,  f.rlorn  and  distracted  ; 
whilst  many  of  them  are  dragged  away  to  a  dirty 
cave,  concealed  from  those  v.dxo  enter  i^to  her  palace, 
at  the  farther  end  of  a  long  lane  bslund  it,  and^called 
the  Cave  of  Poverty:  a  honid  place,  tiie  nilulress 
0 


i»58  Descriptive  Pieces. 

thereof  sits  in  gloomy  state,  on  a  large  rough  slont, 
clad  in  rag?,  shivering  uitii  cold,  pining  with  liun- 
ger,  and  environed  uith  a  set  of  dismal  figures,  look- 
ing at  her  and  one  anotlier  with  amaztmcnt.  Some 
of  their  names  are  Dejection,  Lamentation,  3Iean- 
spiritedness,  Susj)icion,  Greediness,  Dishonest}',  De- 
spair. Not  far  from  thence,  you  may  perceive  a 
strong  prison,  which  is  styled  the  House  of  Discipline. 
It  is  kept  by  tv.o  fierce  and  frightful  fellows  called 
Punishment  and  Terror,  who  are  furnished  with  va- 
rious instruments  of  toil,  of  pain,  and  of  disgrace,  for 
the  chastisement  of  such  malefactors  as  are  delivered 
into  their  liands. 

"  But  now,"  proceeded  he,  "  cast  your  eye  again 
over  the  country  which  I  showed  you.  It  is  divided 
into  sundry  districts,  lying  in  a  circle  round  the  Pal- 
ace of  Pleasure.  In  their  respective  centres  stand  the 
seats  of  her  principal  ministers,  who  are  always  sub- 
ject to  her  wiil^  su]}servicnt  to  her  interests,  and  ready 
to  attend  her  court.  On  one  side,"  to  wliich  he  point- 
ed the  glass,  "  you  see,"  said  he,  "  the  mansion  of 
Luxury,  exceedmgly  magnificent  and  splendid,  raised 
Avith  a  profusion  of  expense,  and  adorned  on  every 
hand  with  all  the  extravagance  of  art."  And  here  he 
desired  me  to  mark  with  particular  care  an  outlet  from 
the  gardens  leading  directly  to  the  Cave  of  Poverty. 

Then  tunnng  the  telescope  to  another  side,  "  Yon- 
der," said  he,  "  Ls  the  abode  of  Intenii)erance.  It 
reseml>les,  you  see,  a  great  inn,  the  gate  thereof  stands 
always  open,  and  into  \\  hich  passengers  are  continual- 
ly crowding.  You  may  observe,  that  hardly  any 
come  out  with  tlie  same  countenance  or  shape  with 
which  they  went  in,  but  are  tran-^formed  into  the  like- 
ness of  different  beasts.  A  little  Avay  oil"  is  a  large 
Hospital  or  Lazar-house,  into  which  the  poor  v/rctch- 
es  are  flung  from  time  to  time,  loaded  with  all  man- 
ner of  diseases,  and  condemned  to  sickness,  pain  and 
putrefaction." 

Directing  the  glass  anothsr  way,  he  next  showed 
me  the  Tower  of  AinbitioB,  built  on  the  top  of  a  very 


Descriptive  Pieces.  ]59 

itigli  hill,  ''  Tliither,"  said  he,  "  you  behold  multf- 
fiules  cluiihing-  from  diil'trcnt  quarteip,  struggling; 
■\\  lio  sh  >uld  get  foremost,  and  pusliing  down  those  he- 
fore  them.  On  one  side  of  i'.,  is  a  ftccp  and  Fllppery 
pn-cipicc,  from  wliich  the  most  -part,  after  having  with 
inHiiilc  toil  and  contention  gained  it,  tinuhle  headlong 
irjto  a  bottomless  gulf,  and  are  never  heard  of  more. 
On  the  other  sitle,  is  a  secret  path  whidi  grows  broad- 
er by  degrees.  At  the  entry  to  it,  stands  a  Fmooth 
and  artful  villain,  called  Corriii)iion,  holding  in  ojie 
hand  rihijons,  and  in  the  other  bags  of  money,  whicU 
under  many  specious  pretexts,  he  presents  to  travelJers, 
according  to  their  several  taste?.  The  path,  after 
winding  up  the  hill,  leads  do'.vn  again  I)y  a  straight 
descent,  till  it  terminates  in  a  dark  dungeon,  stylctl 
the  Dungeon  of  Infamy.  Vou  observe  w  hat  numl>erG 
are  drawn  into  it.  And  of  these  there  are  not  a  few, 
who  not  only  rejfxted  for  a  long  tinie  the  offers  of  Cor- 
ruption, but  exclaimed  loudly  against  Cill  who  embrac- 
ed tlltJU. 

"  The  valley  ])cIow,"  continued  my  guide,  bending 
down  the  telescope,  "  is  possessed  by  Vanity,  whose 
district,  you  may  perceive,  is  still  better  peopled  tiian 
those  of  the  other  retainers  to  Pleasure,  which  you 
have  already  seen.  She  allures  into  her  gaudy  man- 
sion, most  travellers,  by  promising  to  lead  them  to  the 
palace  of  her  mistress  through  the  Temple  of  Fame, 
which  she  pretend^^  is  just  in  the  ntighbourliood,  and 
only  to  become  at  by  parting  through  Iicr  dwelling, 
although  indeed  the  right  road  to  it  lies  through  the 
Temple  of  Virtue,  hard  by  which  it  s'tands.  Those 
who  are  so  foolish  as  to  be  decoyed  by  her,  are  gene- 
rally consigned  over  to  the  scoiif  of  Kidicule,  a  for- 
midable figure,  who  wears  on  his  face  a  perpetual 
sneer,  and  who,  after  treating  them  with  proper 
marks  of  scorn,  shuts  them  up  in  an  obscure  ccJl,  call- 
ed the  Cell  of  Contempt. 

After  this.  Contemplation  pointed  out  to  me,  in  a 
remote  corner  of  the  country,  that  looked  as  if  it  had 
Tjeen  disjoined  from,  all  tlie  i-est,  a  castle,  m  hich  he^aid 


160  Descriptive  ricccs. 

was  inhabited  by  an  old  usurer,  named  Avarice,  ^\ ho 
f^at  starving  amidst  heaps  of  gokl,  and  u  ho,  tIioiig!i  ni 
reality  a  chief  retainer  to  Vice,  refascd  to  acknow  ledge 
licr  under  tlie  form  of  Pleasure,  and  would  never  come 
near  the  coint  of  thiit  jolJy  godtlcss.  "His  castle, 
you  sec,  is  situated  in  the  centre  of  a  deep  wood,  and 
defended  with  high  waits,  and  strong  fortifications. 
'I  hat  iron  gate  which  you  perceive  \ulh  the  assist- 
ance of  the  glas?,  is  the  only  entrance.  It  is  secureel 
w  ithin  f)y  many  strong  bolts.  Without,  stand  two 
sharp  eyed  guards,  with  visages  emaciated  and  ke(.r>, 
ealkd  Hunger  and  Anxiety,  who  let  none  pass  into 
ihe  castle,  till  they  have  manifested  their  good  affec- 
tion to  tlie  master  of  if,  by  ser\-iog  a  suihcient  time  in 
an  outer  yard,  where  some  are  digging,  some  hewing 
itones,  others  carrying  on  tlieir  shoukters  heavy  bur- 
dens, and  many  iilhng  great  chests  with  earth.  It  is^ 
Temarkabie,"  added  he,  'Mhat  from  the  lowest  cellar 
in  the  house  there  is  a  long  subterraneous  passiig?^ 
v,  hieh  (T'^'mJnunicates  with  the  Cave  of  Povirtv." 


SECTION  Yin. 

The  Temple  of  Virtue^ 

Xhe  Temple,  in  full  sight  of  which  we  >\  ere  now 
come,  stood  on  the  summit  of  the  hilL  Jily  guide 
perceiving  me  captivated  with  the  view  of  so  glorious 
a  structure,  said,  pointing  to  it,  "  That,  sir,  is  the 
Temple  of  Virtue,  [*nd  the  abode  of  Happiness.  There 
the  niouLter  who  so  lately  frighted  yeu,  Self  will,  and 
his  gloomy  partner,  Bigotry,  dare  not  venture.  Spleen 
never  spreads  her  sable  wings  Dvere.  From  lhenct3 
are  forever  excluded  Corroding  Cares  and  Fearful 
Forebodings,  with  those  infernal  furies,  bilter  Strife, 
blind  Passion,  brutal  Revenge,  Jealousy  of  jaun<liced 
eye,  felt  Hate j  pining  Envy,  ranacious  Appetite,  an*l 


DcsLi-iptiuc  Pieces.  101 

pale  Remorse.  Neither  the  indolent  nor  the  busy  ad- 
herents to  IMeasure,  can  breathe  in  so  pure  an  air. 
Her  dependants,  who  are  at  the  same  time  mhabitants, 
pass  the  festal  hovns  in  a  perpetual  round  of  pleasinij 
exercises,  divided  into  diilerent  social  bands,  loving 
and  belove(t,  improving  and  improved  by  one  another, 
without  any  contention  but  this,  who  shall  pay  the 
liighest  homage,  and  do  the  most  acceptable  service  to 
their  common  sovereign,  who  is  always  sure  to  dis- 
pense her  noblest  boons  to  the  most  active  and  dc- 
ferviiig." 

]Meanwhile  we  approaclicd'nigh  to  the  sacred  maii- 
i?ion,  wliich  was  built  of  a  transparejit  stone,  that  ad- 
mitted liglit  from  every  quarter.  It  was  of  a  quadran- 
gular form,  and  had  at  top  a  magniOeciit  dom?.  Its 
portal  was  supported  by  a  double  row  of  pillars  of  the 
Dorick  order.  The  entry  was  guarded  by  two  senti- 
nels, who  had  something  in  their  looks  so  awful,  that 
several  travellers  recoiled  at  siiiht  of  them.  Their 
names  were.  Temperance  and  Fortitude.  The  for- 
mer held  in  his  hand  a  bridle,  and  the  latter  a  spear 
in  hers.  Though  their  first  appearance  was  rather 
stern  and  forbidding,  metliought  it  softf-ned  on  us,  as 
soon  fis  they  observed  the  company  we  were  in.  The 
gates  stood  wide  open,' as  !■  was  tijld  they  alway?  do. 
Ascending  by  easy  step«,  we  entered*  I  wns  trans- 
ported with  the  beauty  and  gn-atness  of  the  place. 
The  height  and-circumferenceof  the  dom*-,  both  fill- 
ed and  dt'lighted  (he  eye.  The  manner  of  th?  whole 
was  simple  and  solem>i.  Thtre  was  no  need  of  ad- 
ventitious decorations,  and  there  were  none. 

At  the  upper  end  of  the  temple,  on  a  throus  of 
state,  appeared'the  goddess.  But  how  describe  her 
wondrous  form?'  Her  complexion  was  clear,  health- 
ful, and  animated  with  a  native  glow  more  bright 
than  art  can  confer.  Her  features  were  regular,  and' 
vv-ell  proportioned'^  Irat  had  u  itlml  a  kind  of  mascu- 
line air.  Her  eyes  were  blue,  beautiful,'  and  piercing 
as  light  itself.  In  all  her  mein  there  was  a  happy 
mixture  of  dicnity  a?}d  modesty.  No  ornaracntf; 
0 :,' 


J 6'^  Ucsa-ipiivc  i'icces. 

about  her  i)cr?on,  but  %\hat  were  decent  and  natural 
Ilcr  hair  flowed  down  lierneck  in  artless  riui^icts.  A 
sprig  of  laurel  was  wreathed  round  her  temples.  Slie 
wore  a  robe  of  the  purest  purple,  which  was  girl  with 
a  zone  about  her  waist,  from  uhich  it  feJi  iji  ample 
and  easy  fold?,  alike  graceful  and  unnicumbered.  blie 
held  in  her  hand  an  imperial  sword,  the  emblem  of 
power  aiid  authority.  Before  the  throne,  which  was 
of  alabaster,  were  placed  various  ensigns  of  dominion, 
a  globe,  crowns,  ;:cej)tres,  tables  of  law.s,  .suits  of  ar- 
mour; instruments  of  war,  trophies,  and  the  several 
symbols  of  the  finer  arts. 

The  presence  of  the  goddess,  so  divinely  great,  over- 
whelmed me  with  veneration  and  rapture.  I  stood 
for  some  time  immoveable,  as  if  lost  in  admiration. 
When  I  was  a  little  recovered  from  my  ecstacy,  my 
guide,  pointing  to  the  throne,  said,  "  There  sits  the 
Divinity  of  the  place,  the  daughter  of  those  immor- 
tal powers,  Wisdom  and  Love.  She  was  brought 
forth  at  a  birth  with  Happiness,  her  sister,  and  undi- 
vided companion  ;  and  sent  down  from  above  as  the 
best  friend  of  men,  and  the  surest  directress  of  life, 
the  guardian  of  youth,  the  glory  of  manhood,  and 
the  comforter  of  old  age.  By  her  instructions  and 
laws,  human  society  is  formed  and  maintained  ;  and 
human  nature,  by  converse  with  her,  grows  truly  god- 
like." 

My  guide  then  acquainted  me  with  the  names,  and 
symbols  of  the  numerous  attendants  of  the  goddess. 
On  either  side  ol  the  throne,  as  its  supporters,  stood 
two  illustrious  personages,  called  Prudence  and  Jus- 
tice. Prudence  held  a  rule  in  one  hand,  and  in  the 
other  a  serpent,  which  twined  its  inoifensive  spires 
round  her  arm.  Justice  held  in  her  hand  a  pair  of 
scales.  Tlie  votaries,  as  they  approached,  were  intro- 
duced to  the  presence  by  a  young  virgin  of  the  most 
lovely  appearance,  who  could  not  i>erform  her  task 
without  blushing.  Her  name  was  Modesty.  On  the 
right  hajid  of  the  goddess,  stood  Domestic  Tender- 
i>ess,  Chastity  with  a  veil,  meek-eyed  Charity,  sacred 


iMrscr'iptitc  Ficces.  l6'3 

Fricndfiliip,  and  heroic  Indignation,  of  a  stern  aspect 
and  awful  mein,  yraspin.^'  the  imperial  sword  ^vhich 
Viitne  readied  out  to  iiim,  and  Icadini^  up  Public 
Zeal,  iMagnanimity,  and  Honour,  persons  of  a  fearJcRS 
oounlenance  and  noble  deportment,  with  several  more 
•wliose  names  1  have  forgot. 

On  her  left  hand  \vere  i)laced,  amongst  otherp,  Ho- 
nesty, in  her  transparent  vest ;  Sincerity^  of  an  ingp- 
nuous  face ;  Resignation,  leaning  on  a  column,  and 
looking  up  to  heaven ;  Clemency,  liolding  an  olive 
branch  ;  and  Hospitality,  of  a  liberal  and  open  man- 
ner, joining  hands  with  Politcne??.  Behind  the  throne, 
stood  ranged,  unruffied  Serenity ;  smiling  Cheerful- 
ness j  ever-blooming  Joy,  with  a  garland  of  tlowers  in 
her  iiand  ;  and  ilie  Gracep,  encircled  in  each  other's 
arms.  There  too  appeared  Industry,  of  a  hale  and 
active  loolc,  and  Peace  crowned  with  laurel,  support- 
ing a  Cornucopia  between  tjiem  ;  Credit  linked  hand 
in  hand  w ith  Commerce ;  and  botli  introduced  by  Ci- 
vil Liberty,  holding  her  wand  and  cap.  In  Virtue's 
train,  I  likewise  saw  Riietoric,  of  a  bold  and  enthusi- 
astic air;  Poetry,  with  her  lyre;  Philosophy,  with 
iier  speculum;  History  with  her  pen;  ScuJ^)turc^ 
Painting,  and  the  rest  of  the  Arts  and  Sciences^  each 
adorned  with  their  resj>cctive  symbols.  The  pre- 
sence of  the  goddess  seemed  to  inspire  the  whole  ge- 
nerous and  amiable  band,  and  gave  a  fresh  lustre  te^ 
their  Ixiauty. 


SECTION  IX. 

Descent  into,  the  Dolgoatk  Minc^  in  180G. 

I  AVAs  introduced  yesterday  to  Mr.  M ,  a  ma-- 

nager  of  the  mines,  wlio  called  upon  me  this  morr> 
ing,  and  conducted  me  to  the  Dolgoath  mine,  situat- 
ed three  miles  west  from  Rediath.    It  is  the  great- 


16  i  -  Desert]  the  rieces. 

est  mine  in  Cornwall,  and  is  wrought  principally  for 
copper,  althougii  it  allords  tin  and  several  other  me- 
tals. My  companion  was  a  man  of  information  and 
intelh'^cnce,  ami  1  received  from  him  uncommon  ci' 
viMties. 

Our  ride  led  us  thro»gIi  a  mining  region  ;  every 
thing  here  points  towards  this  object ;  it  is  the  great 
concern  of  the  country,  and  in  some  department  or 
other  of  this  business,  almost  every  man,  woman,  and 
child  is  employed.  For  it,,  agriculture,  commerce, 
and  manufactures  are  neglected,  and  that  industry 
which,  in  more  fortunate  countries,  is-  employed  to 
fertilize  and  adorn  the  surface  of  the  ground,  is  here 
directetl  to  those  treasures  wliich  are  conceaJed  be- 
neath the  incumbent  hills  and  mountainsi 

You  would  be  astonislied  to  see  what  quantities  of 
rubbish,  the  industry  of  the  Cornish  minei*s  has  col- 
lected on  the  surface  ;  it  g^ivestiie  country  an  appear- 
ance of  sterility  and  ntdcness  almost  inconceivable. 

Redruth  is  in  the  centre  of  a  circle  of  about  twen- 
ty miles  in  diameter,  within  which  are  contained  al- 
most all  tlie  important  mines.  I  came  into  the  couij- 
(ry  with  the  impression  tliat  tin  is  its  principal  pro- 
duction, but  Ifindtb.at  copper  is  by  far  the  greater 
concern,  afid  that  tin  is  only  a  secondary  object.  The 
tin  is  less  abmidant  than  formerly,  but  the  copper 
much  more  so,  and  the  latter  ayticle  now  commands 
so  high  a  price  that  the  working  of  tlie  copper  mints 
is  a  very  profitable  business. 

Tlie  expenses  of  llie  Dolgoatli  mine  are  about  seven 
or  eight  thousand  poiiuds  sterling  a  month,  and  the 
dear  profits  for  the  last  five  months  have  been  eighteen 
thousand  pounds',  that  is,  at  tire  rate  of  forty-three 
thousaiTfl  U\'o  hundred' pounds,  or  one  hundred  ninety- 
two  thousand  dollars  a  year.  These  facta  make  it 
very  cAidcnt  that  the  mining  business  in  Cornwall  is  a 
great  and'  protltable  concern. 

The  miners  arc  under  the  immediate  control  of  a 
chief  who  is  called  the  captain  of  the  mine.  Mr. 
\\ introduced  me  to  one  of  these  captains,  who 


Descriptive  ricccs.  165 

ohligingly  undertock  to  conduct  me  tliFOugh  the  Fub- 
lorrciiiean  regions  of  Dolgoath. 

First  of  al[,  \\t  repaired  to  the  miiiers'  \vardrobe> 
A\  Iicre,  having  talcing  leave  of  Mr.  31 ,  1  prepar- 
ed for  my  descent,  l)y  thro^ving  off  my  own  drets 
and  putting  on  that  of  tJie  mi.ier?.  It  consisted  of  a 
very  large  shirt,  of  very  coarse  materials,  and  made 
like  the  frocks  ol  the  Connecticut  farmers;  then  of  a 
pair  of  largo  sailor  trov. sers,  stjipcd  across  with  white 
and  black,  of  the  coarsest  stalf  which  is  ever  employ- 
ed for  horse  blankets,  and,  over  all  m  as  a  loose  coat, 
A\hich,  like  the  rest  of  my  apparel,  exhibited  the 
strongest  evidence  that  it  had  often  been  below  the 
surface.  I  m  ore  a  pair  of  cow-skin  shoes,  ^vithout 
stockings,  made  fast  by  tow  strings,  passing  under  the 
sole  and  over  the  inste|».  Over  my  head  they  drew  a 
■Rhite  cap,  which  they  crowned  uith  an  oldliat  with- 
out a  brim. 

Besides  the  captain  I  had  another  guide,  an  expe- 
rienced miner  v/ho  went  before,  wJiile  the  captain  fol- 
lowed me  ;  each  of  them  carried  a  supply  of  candles 
tied  to  a  button  hole,  and,  like  them,  I  bore  a  lightetl 
candle  in  niy  left  hand,  stuck  into  a  mass  of  wet  clay. 
Although  I  was  preparing,  like  vEneas,  to  dcscoid  to 
the  shades  below,  1  could  not  boast  of  his  epic  digni- 
ty, for  lie  bore  a  golden  branch,  while  I  carried  only 
a  tallow  candle. 

The  mines  of  Cornwall  are  of  much  more  difficult 
access  than  those  of  Derbyshire,  for^^  instead  of  go- 
ing horizontally,  or  with  only  a  gtnlle  descent,  into 
the  side  of  a  mountain,  we  are  obliged  to  go  perpen- 
dicularly down  the  shaft,  which  is- a  pit  formed  by 
digging  and  blasting,  and  exactly  resembles  a  well, 
except  in  its  greater  depth  and  varying  size,  which  is 
sometimes  greater  and  sometimes  smaller,  according 
to  circumstances.  The  descent  is  by  means  of  lad- 
ders ;  at  the  termination  of  each  ladder  there  is  com- 
monly a  resting  place,  foruied  by  a  piece  of  timber 
or  a  plank  fixed  across,  in  the  stones  or  earth,  which- 
form  the  walls  of  the  pit ;  this  supports  the  ladckv 


ICG  Descriptive  Pieces. 

above,  and  from  it  the  adventurer  steps  on  to  the  lad- 
der next  below. 

"With  each  a  lighted  candle,  Koheld  by  the  thumb 
and  forefinger  of  tlie  left  hand,  as  to  leave  tlic  other 
three  fingers  at  iil)crty  to  gra^p  the  roimds  of  the  lad- 
der, and  with  the  light  hand  devoted  wholly  to  the 
same  service,  we  commenced  oar  descent. 

It  was  laborious  and  hazardous,  but  we  did  not 
stop  till  we  had  descended  four  Jiundred  feet.  The 
rounds  of  the  ladders  are  constantly  wet  and  muddy, 
tnd  therefore  very  slippery  ;  many  of  them,  through 
length  of  time,  are  decayed  and  worn  so  very  nn  i!l, 
that  they  seem  on  the  point  of  giving-  way  ;  in  de- 
scending perpendicularly  with  these  disadvantages, 
the  ulrcost  caution  is  therefore  requisite,  on  the  part 
of  a  novice,  lest  he  tlvould  quit  his  foothold  before  he 
has  a  firm  grasp  v  ith  his  fingers,  or  Itst,  in  the  dim 
twilight  shed  by  his  candle,  he  should  make  a  false 
■  aim  witii  his  foot  or  hand,  or  take  an  imperfect  and 
untenable  hold  with  either ;  not  to  mention  the  dan- 
ger of  the  giving  v,ay  of  the  rounds  of  tiie  ladder,  any 
of  which  accidents  would  semi  him  to  a  place  whence 
he  would  not  return;  for,  the  resting  places  at  the 
het  of  the  ladders,  as  they  fill  only  a  small  part  of  the 
shaft,  would  diminish  very  Mttle,  the  chance  of  going 
quite  to  the  bottom. 

Having  arrived  at  tlie  depth  of  four  hundred  feet, 
"5ve  came  to  what  the  miners  call  an  adit  or  level,  that 
is,  a  passage  running  horizontally,  or,  at  right  angles 
M'ith  the  shaft.  This  passage  liad  been  made  through 
the  solid  rock,  and  was  high  enough  to  allow  us  to 
pass  along  stooping,  which  we  did  fir  a  considera!:)le 
distance,  when  the  sound  of  human  voices  from  below, 
imUcoted  our  approach  to  the  populous  regions  of 
midnight;  while  the  rattling  of  mechanical  instru- 
ments, employed  in  breaking  otf  the  ore,  and  the  re-_ 
port  from  the  explosion  of  gim-powdcr,  echoed  and 
reverberated  along  these  narrow  caverns,  with  the  sul- 
phureous and  suiibcating  smoke,  presented  a  combina- 
tion ot  circumstances  which  might  well  have  give 


Descriptive  Pieces.  16  r 

uiic  the  impression  llmt  he  had  arrived  in  a  worse 
place  than  the  mine  of  Doli?oath. 

Troceeding  along  the  adit,  we  came  to  another 
fchai't,  down  which  we  dcscendetl  two  hiuulrcd  feet 
more,  anil  were  then  full  six  lumdrcd  feet  from  the 
surface.  This  was  the  principal  scene  of  labour  ;  at 
about  this  depth,  there  were  great  namf>ers  of  min- 
ers engaged  in  their  respective  employments.  Some 
were  boring  the  rock  ;  others  charging  w  ith  gnn-pow- 
dcr,  the  holes  already  made;  others  knocking  off  the 
ore  Mith  hammers,  or  prying  it  with  pickaxes;  oth- 
ers loading  the  buckets  with  ore  to  be  drawn  to  the 
surface;  others  working  the  vindlafses,  to  raise  the 
riibbi!-h  from  one  level  to  another,  and  ultimately  to 
the  top;  in  short,  all  were  busy;  and,  aJthough 
to  us  tlieir  employnunts  seems  only  another  nariKi. 
for  wretchedness,  they  appeared  quite  a  content- 
ed and  cheerful  class  of  people.  In  their  man- 
ners tJiey  arc  gentle  and  inicommonly  civil,  and 
most  of  them  ])aid  me  some  marl:  of  respect  as  a 
stranger. 

>\  e  occupied  three  hours  in  exploring  the  mine, 
and,  in  this  time,  travclltd  a  mile  under  ground,  in 
various  directions.  The  employment  was  extremely 
]al)orious  W'c  could  rarely  walk  erect ;  often  we 
were  obliged  to  crawl  oji  our  hands  and  knees,  over 
sliarp,  rugged  stones,  and  frequently  it  was  necessa- 
ry to  lie  dov.n  llat,  and  to  work  our  vvay  along  by 
the  points  of  the  elbows,  and  extremities  of  the 
toes,  like  seals  on  a  ))each.  At  out  time  we  descend- 
ed, and,  at  another,  ascended  through  a  narrow  aper- 
ture, where  we  could  only  with  difficulty  squeeze 
ourselves  through,  and  we  then  continued  our  pro- 
gress by  ste})ping  on  the  projections  of  the  rock,  as 
men  do  in  going  up  or  down  a  well.  My  perspiration 
Avas  so  violent,  that  streams  literally  ran  from  my 
nose,  locks,  and  chin,  and  in  this  state  we  came  lo 
the  cliannei  ^\here  the  water  of  the  mine  fiows  oii", 
through  which  we  were  obliged  to  w  ade  along,  half 
leg  deep,  for  thirty  rods.     1  was  upon  tlie  w  hole; 


1G8  Dcscripdvc  Pieces, 

much  gratifjcd  and  instructed.  I  saw  the  ore  in  its 
natural  slate,  imbedded  iti  solid  rock,  j)rincipally 
quariz  and  schii^t^s;  the  jiiine  produces  also  some 
tin,  cobalt,  pyrites,  bhie  vitriol,  and  even  silver. 
Very  litlle  ])rogress  is  made  without  blasting,  and 
this  destroys  more  lives  than  ail  the  other  casualties 
of  the  business  put  together.  Tliey  expk)de<l  one 
blast  while  we  were  there  ;  we  of  course,  retired  a 
proper  distance,  nut  of  danger. 

Having  seen  all  the  inttrestiiig  tilings  of  the  place, 
we  ])egaM  to  ascend.  We  were  drawn  up  a  small 
part  of  the  way  in  a  liuckel,  worked  by  a  Muidlass, 
but  we  ^\ent  up  principally  by  ladders,  in  a  shaft 
quite  remote  from  tiiat  in  wjiicli  we  descended.  It 
was  that  in  uhicli  the  rod  of  the  steam  engine  plays 
10  draw  up  tlie  water. 

'I'his  engine  is  one  of  very  great  magnitude.  T'le 
rod,  vJiich  is  made  of  pieces  of  timber,  and,  at  the 
top,  cannot  be  less  than  five  or  six  feet  in  diameter, 
descends  perpendicularly  one  Jiundred  and  eighty  fa- 
thoms, or  one  thousand  and  eighty  feet,  and  motion 
is  propagated  through  this  whole  distance,  so  as  to 
raise  a  weight  of  thirty  thousand  pounds  at  every 
stroke,  for  this  is  the  poAver  of  the  engine. 

The  steam  engine  is  now  extensively  employed  in 
mining,  not  only  to  raise  the  water,  but  the  ore;  in- 
<lced  without  it  the  mirse  of  Dolgoath  could  not  be 
wrought;  the  strength  of  horses  and  of  men  is  a  use- 
ful auxiliary,  but  would  eillct,  comparatively,  very 
little  alone. 

At  length,  after  a  most  laborious  and  painful  as- 
cent, less  hazu'dous  it  is  true,  but  incomparably 
more  fatiguing  than  the  descent,  ve  reached  the  sur- 
face in  safety,  at  a  great  distance  from  the  place 
Aihere  we  first  descended.  With  joy,  wJlh  gratitude, 
I  beheld  the  returnmg  liglit  of  heaven,  and,  nlliiough 
I  could  not  think  tliat,  in  my  case,  the  ent;u"prise  was 
rash,  I  should  certainly  dissuade  any  friend  from 
gratifying  mere  cuiiosily  at  so  much  hazard.  The 
danger  is  serious,  even  to  the  miP-crs,    for,  by  ex- 


Dcsuripthe  Pieces:  169 

plosion.-,  by  falls,  by  mqjliitic  qases,  and  other  causes 
conni-'clcd  with  tlie  nature  of  theemj)!oymcnts,  num- 
bers of  the  people  are  can  ii'd  oil"  every  year,  and,  on 
this  account,  lUdrulh  and  i(s  vicinity  has  an  uncora- 
nion  proportion  of  widows  and  orphans. 

Immediately  after  conjing  as,^ain  into  day-Iiqht,  we 
made  all  possible  haste  to  shclicr  ourselves  from  the 
cold  wind,  as  we  \'.erc  afraid  of  tlie  consequences  of 
^cliecking-  too  suddenly  a  very  profuse  perspiraiion"; 
the  near<'st  house  was  our  wardrobe,  to  Avhich  we 
immediately  resorted,  and  performed  a  general  ablu- 
tion from  head  to  foot.  1  then  resumed  my  proper 
dress,  and  prepared  to  return  again  into  more  com- 
fortable life.  Before  taking  leave  of  my  conductors, 
AvJio,  with  the  greatest  patience,  good-nature,  and  in- 
telligence, had  done  every  tiling  both  for  my  safety 
and  gratilication,  I  offered  them  a  small  recompense; 
but,  with  sentiments,  of  d"licacy,  not  often  found  in 
any  country,  among  people  of  that  grade  in  life,  they 
declined  taking  any,  alleging  that  it  was  not  decent 
to  receive  money  of  a  stranger  for  a  mnre  act  of  civi- 
lity; aftd  it  was  not  till  after  repealed  solicitations, 
that  1  could  induce  them  to  yield  i\\(^  point.  Such 
magnanimity,  among  people  who  are  buried  most  of 
their  lives,  and  who  seem  to  have  a  kind  of  right  to 
tax  all  tliose  who  live  on  the  surface,  was  as  unexpect- 
ed as  it  was  gratifying.  It  is  not  true,  however,  that 
the  Cornish  miners  live  permanently  below  ground; 
they  gT  up  regularly  every  night,  and  down  again  in 
the  morning,  so  that  they  perform,  every  day  of  their 
?ives,  the  tour  whicli  seemed  so  formidable  to  kr\ 


CHAP.   V. 
rJ  THEriC  PIECES. 

SECTION  I. 

The  Blind  Preacher. 

1  HAVE  been,  my  dear  S ,  on  au  excursion 

through  the  couiitk-s  which  lie  along  the  eastern  side 
of  the  Blue  Ridge.  A  general  def-cription  of  that 
country  and  its  inhabitants,  may  forra  the  subjtxt  of 
a  future  letter.  For  the  present,  I  must  entertain 
you  with  an  account  of  a  most  singular  and  interest- 
ing adventure,  which  1  met  w  ith,  in  tlie  course  of 
the  tour. 

It  was  one  Sabballi,  as  I  travelled  through  the 
county  of  Orange,  that  my  eye  was  caught  by  a  chis- 
ter  of  horses  tied  near  a  ruinous,  old,  wooden  house, 
in  the  forest,  not  far  from  the  road  side.  Having 
frequently  seen  such  objects  I)efore,  in  (ravtiiing 
tlirough  these  states,  I  had  no  difllculty  in  understand- 
ing that  tliis  was  a  place  of  religious  worsliip.  Drvo- 
lion  aionc,  should  have  stopped  me,  to  join  in  the  ihi- 
ties  of  the  congregation  ;  but  I  must  cojifcss,  that  cu- 
riosity to  hear  the  preacher  of  sucJi  a  s\iideri'iess,  was 
not  the  least  of  my  motives. 

On  entering  the  liou^e,  I  was  struck  with  his  pre- 
ternatural appearance.  He  was  a  tall  and  very  spaic 
old  man.... his  head,  which  wns  covered  with  a  wiiite 
linen  cap,  liis shrivelled  hands, and  his  voice,  werc?aU 
sliaking  under  the  influence  of  a  palsy,  and  a  i\\  ino- 
ments  ascertained  to  me  that  he  was  perfeclly  blind. 
The  first  emotions  A\hicli  touched  my  breast,  were 
those  of  mingled  pity  and  veneration.  But,  a]-. ! 
Great  God  I  how  soon  were  all  my  feelings  clianged  ! 
It  ^vas  a  day  of  the  administration  of  the  sacrament. 


ralhciic  rieces.  171 

and  his  subject,  of  course,  was  the  passion  of  our  Sav- 
iour. I  had  heard  tilt!  f:ul>ject  handled  a  thousand 
times:  I  had  thoui;lit  it  exhautted  long  aijo.  Littlo 
did  1  suppose,  that  in  the  wild  \\oods  of  America,  I 
was  to  meet  w  ilh  a  man  whose  eloquence  would  give 
to  this  topic,  a  new  and  more  subl/icie  pathos  tlian  J 
had  ever  Ix^fore  m  itne^^h.d. 

As  he  descended  from  the  pulpit,  to  distribute  Ihr^ 
mystic  symbols,  (iiere  was  a  peculiar,  a  more  than  ln\- 
man  solenniity  in  his  air  and  nirinner,  which  made  my 
blood  run  cold,  and  my  whole  frame  to  shiver.  lie 
then  drew  a  picture  of  the  suJlerings  of  our  Saviour — 
his  trial  before  Pilatt' — his  a.'cent  up  Calvary — Ids 
crucifixion — and  his  death.  1  icncw  the  whole  iiistcj- 
ry ;  but  never,  until  then,  had  1  heard  the  circum- 
stances so  selectee.!,  so  arrani^ed,  so  coloured  !  It  was 
ail  new  :  and  I  seemed  to  have  heard  it  for  the  (irst 
time  in  ray  life.  His  enunciation  was  so  deliberate, 
that  his  voice  trembled  on  every  syllable ;  and  every 
heart  in  the  assembly  trejnbied  in  tuiison. 

flis  peculiar  phrases,  had  that  fore  of  description, 
that  the  original  scene  appeared  to  be,  at  that  mo- 
ment, acting"  before  cur  eyes,  \/c  saw  the  very  faces 
of  the  Jews — the  starin,<^,  frightful  distortions  of  ma- 
lice and  rage.  We  saw  the  builct — my  soul  kindled 
with  a  iiame  of  indignation,  and  my  hands  were  invo- 
luntarily and  convuisiveiy  clenched.  But  uhen  he 
came  to  touch  the  patiet:cf,  the  forgiving  mcekiicss  of 
our  Saviour — uhtn  he  drew,  to  the  life,  his  blessed 
eyes  streaming  in  tears  to  Heaven — liis  voice  breatlnng 
lOsGofl,  a  soft  and  gentle  praycv  of  pardon  on  Iiis  en- 
emies, "  Father  forgive  them,  f)r  they  know  not  what 
they  do" — the  voice  of  the  preacher  which  had  all 
along,  faultercd,  qv&w  fainter  aiid  fainter,  until  his 
utterance  being  entirely  ohstruckd  by  the  force  ofhis 
feelings,  he  raised  his  hnndkeicliief  io  his  eyes,  and 
burst  into  a  loud  and  irrcpresdble  flood  of  grief. 
The  eilect  is  inconceivalj'e.  The  whole  iionse  vq- 
i:Oiindccl  with  the  mingird  c-roan-,  and  sobs,  and 
fhricks  of  the  ccngrcgatioi]. 


172  Pathetic  Pieces. 

It  was  some  time  before  the  tumult  had  gubp/Idcct^ 
so  far  as  to  permit  him  to  proceed.  Indeed,  judging 
T)y  the  usual,  ?)ut  fallacious  standard  of  my  crvvn  Avcak- 
nesf,  1  began  to  lie  vcjy  uneasy  for  the  situation  of 
the  preaclier.  For  I  could  not  conceive,  how  he 
would  be  able  o  let  his  audience  down  from  the 
height  to  whicli  he  liad  woa.id  them,  witliout  im- 
pairing the  folemnity  and  dignity  of  his  subject,  or 
perhaps  shocking  them  by  the  abruptness  of  the  fall. 
But — no:  the  descent  was  as  beautiful  and  sublime, 
js  tJie  elevation  had  been  raj)id  and  enthusiastic. 

The  first  sentence  with  ^'.•llich  he  broke  the  awful 
iilence,  was  a  quotation  from  Rousseau :  "  Socrates 
*iicd  like  a  philosopher,  but  Jesus  Christ  like  a 
God  ! .'"  I  des])air  of  giving  you  any  idea  of  the  ef- 
fect produeed  by  this  short  sentence,  ualessyou  could 
perfectly  conceive  tlje  ^\hole  manner  of  the  man,  as 
well  as  the  peculiar  crisis  in  the  discourse.  Never  be- 
fore, did  I  completely  understand  what  Demcslhencs 
meant  by  laying  sucli  stress  on  delivery. 

You  are  to  bring  before  you  the  venerable  figure  of 
the  preacher — his  blindness,  constantly  recalling  to 
your  recollection  old  Homer,  Ossiau,  and  Milton,  and 
associating  with  his  performance,  the  melancholy 
grandeur  of  their  geniuses — you  are  to  imagii>e  that 
you  hear  his  slow,  solemn,  well-accented  enunciation^ 
and  his  voice  of  aiiecting,  trembling  melody — you  are 
to  remember  the  pitch  of  passion  and  enthusiasm  to 
ivhicli  the  congregation  were  raised — and  then,  the 
few  minutes  of  portentous,  death-like  silence  which 
leigned  throughout  the  house— the  preacher  remov- 
ing his  white  handkerchief  from  his  aged  face,  (even 
yet  wet  from  the  recent  torrent  of  his  tears)  and 
hlowly  stretching  forth  the  palsied  hand  v>hicli holds 
it,  begins  the  sentence — ''  Socrates  died  like  a  philoso- 
pher"— then  pausing,  raising  his  other  hand,  prcssiiig 
them  botii,  clasped  together,  \V'ith  warmth  andener- 
ijy  to  his  breast,  lifting  his  sightless  balls  to  Heaven, 
and  pouring  his  whole  soul  into  his  tremulous  voice 
— «  but  Jesus  Christ— like  a  God  !"     If  he  had  been 


Pcthciic  Ficces.  178 

indeed  and  in  truth  an  angel  of  light,  the  effect  could 
scarcely  have  been  «iore  divine. 

Whatever  1  had  been  able  to  conceive  of  the  sub- 
limity of  Masj-illon,  or  the  force  of  Bourdaloue,  had 
fallen  far  short  of  the  power  which  I  felt  from  the  de- 
livery of  this  simple  sentence.  The  blood,  wliich^ 
just  before,  had  rushed  in  a  hurricane  upon  my  brain,, 
'and,  in  the  violence  and  agony  of  my  feeliMK^  had 
held  my  whole  system  in  suspense  ;  nav»  ran  back  into 
my  heart,  with  a  sensation  v.liich  1  cannot  describe  ; 
d  kind  of  sluuhlerini?  dolicious  horror  !  The  parox- 
ysm of  blended  pity  and  indignation  to  which  1  had 
been  tran^jported,  subsided  into  the  dtejiest  self-abase- 
ment, luimilily,  and  adoration.  I  had  just  been  la- 
cerated and  dissolved  by  sympathy,  for  our  Saviour, 

as   a    fellow-creature; but  now^  with  fear   and. 

trembling,  I  adored  him  as — "  a  Gi.d!" 

If  this  description  gives  you  Ihe,  inipression,  that- 
this  incomparable  minister  had  any  thing  of  shallow, 
theatrical  trick  in  his  manrvr,  it  does  him  great  in- 
iusticc.  I  have  never  seen,  in  any  other  orator,  such 
an  uniou  of  simplicity  and  majtisty.  He  has  not  a 
gesture,  an  attitude,  or  an  accent,  to  which  he  docs 
not  seem  forced,  by  tiie  sentiment  which  he  is  express- 
ing His  niLn  1  is  too  serious,  too  earnest,  too  solicit- 
ous, and,  at  the  same  time,  too  dignifi.  d,  to  stoop  to 
artifice.  Although  as  far  reinovcd  from  osttistation 
as  a  man  can  be,  yet  it  is  clear  from  the  train,  the 
style  and  substance  of  his  thoughts,  that  he  is,  not 
only  a  very  polite  scholar,  but  a  man  of  extensive  and 
profound  erudition^  1  was  forcibly  struck  with  a 
short,  yet  beautiful  character  which  he  drew  of  our 
learned  and  amiable  countryman,  Sir  Robert  Boyle: 
he  spoke  of  him,  as  if  "  his  noble  mind  had,  even  be- 
fore death,  divested  herself  af  all  influence  from  his 
frail  tabernacle  "  of  flesh ;-'  and  called  him  in  his 
peculiarly  em;)hatic  and  impressive  manner,  "  a  pure 
intelligence — the  link  between  men  and  angels." 

This,  man  has  bean  before  my  imagination  almost 
ever  siixe.     A  Ihoufand  times  as  I  rode  alang,  I 
P2. 


174  Pathetic  Pieces, 

dropped  the  rein:;  of  my  bridle,  Piretclicd  forth  my 
hand,  and  tj'ied  to  imitjt '  his  quotation  from  Rous- 
seau ;  a  thousand  time?  1  abandoned  the  attempt  in 
despair,  and  felt  persuaded  that  his  peculiar  manner 
and  poMer,  arose  fr<  ci  an  erurgy  of  soul,  Nvhich  na- 
ture could  give,  hut  \\hich  no  human  being  could 
justly  copy.  In  short,  he  seems  to  I)e  altogether  a 
bein^-  of  a  former  age,  or  of  a  totally  different  nature 
from  the  rest  of  men. 

Guess  my  surprize,  when,  on  my  arrival  at  llich- 
fttond,  and  mentioning  the  name  of  this  man,  I  found 
not  one  person  who  had  ever  before  heard  of  James 
Waddcll  !  Is  it  not  strange,  tliat  such  a  genius  as  this, 
so  accomplished  a  scholar,  so  divine  an  orator,  should 
be  permitted  to  languish  and  die  in  obscurity,  within 
eighty  miles  of  the  m.etropoUs  of  Virginia  ! 


SECTION  ir. 

Dr.  Mason's  Intervicrj  rvith  Gsncrat  Hamiltori. 

O^  the  morning  of  Wednesday,  the  llth  inst, 
shortly  after  the  rumour  of  the  General's  injury  hud 
created  an  alarm  in  the-  city,  a  note  from  Dr.  Post 
informed  me  that  "  he  was  extremely  ill  at  Mr.  Wm. 
Bayard's,  and  expressed  a  particular  desire  to  see  me 
as  soon  as  possi!)Ie."  I  went  immediately.  The  ex- 
change of  melanchofy  salutation,  on  entering  th^  Ge- 
neral's apartment,  was  succeeded  by  a  silence,  which 
lie  broke  by  saying,  that  he  "  had  been  anxious  to  see 
me,  and  have  the  sacrament  admanlstered  to  him  ; 
and  that  this  was  still  his  wish." 

I  replied,  that  "  it  gave  me  unutterable  pain  to  re- 
ceive from  him  anv  request  to  which  1  could  not  ac- 
cede :  that,  in  (he  present  instance,  a  compliance 
was  incompatihlc  with  ali  my  obligations ;  as  it  i^  a 


i 'at hi  tic  } 'trees.  175 

priticipJe  in  our  cluirchcs  novir  to  admlnb^tcr  the 
Lord's  Supper  privately  to  any  perf  ,n  under  any 
circumstdiiccs."  lie  1115 -d  me  no  fuitlier.  1  then 
remaikcd  to  him,  tJiat,  "  iJic  Ifoly  Communion  ii 
an  exhibition  and  pledge  of  tlu'  juercics  which  tlu; 
Son  of  (iod  has  purciiahcd  j  that  the  ahsence  of  (ho 
fiign  does  not  iexcluchj  from  the  merries  tiiLfnified  ; 
V  hich  were  accessible  to  him  by  faith  in  tJuir  gra- 
cious Author."  "  lam  auare,"  Kiid  he,  "  of  that. 
It  i.s  only  as  a  ?i'^n  that  I  wanted  it."  A  short  pause 
ensued. 

1  resumed  the  discourse,  by  ol)Pvrvin,£:  tl>=it  '*^  I 
had  nothing  to  address  to  him  in  his  iiillicliun,  but 
that  same  gospel  of  the  grace  of  God,  wliicii  it  is  my 
Oihce  to  preach  to  the  most  obscure  and  illiierate: 
that  in  ihe  si^ht  of  God  all  nsen  are  on  a  level,  as 
all  have  sinned,  and  come  short  of  his  glori/ ;  and 
that  they  must  apply  to  him  for  pard  in  and  life,  a; 
sinners,  w  hose  only  refuge  is  in  his  grace  reigning 
li'l  righteousness  through  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ.^' 
"  I  {>erceive  it  to  be  so,"  said  he;  "  I  am  a  sinner: 
I  look  to  his  mercy.'*  I  then  adverted  to  the  "  infi- 
nite  merit  of  the  Rf^deemer,  as  the  propiliaiion  for 
sin,  tlia  sole  ground  of  oiw  acceptance  with  God  : 
the  sole  cliannel  of  his  favour  to  us;  and  cited  (he 
fallowing  passages  of  scriptui'e: — There  is  no  other 
name  given  under  heaven  among  men,  wiiereby  ne  must 
be  saved,  hut  the  na^ie  of  Jesvs.  lie  is  able  to  save 
them  to  the  uttermost  ?iho  eomeiinto  God.  by  him,  seeing 
he  ever  tiveth  to  make  intercession  for  them.  The 
blood  of  Jesus  Christ  cleanscth  from  all  sin."^ — This 
last  passage  introduced  the  aliair  of  the  duel,  on 
which  I  remhided  the  Gt;ieral,  that  he  was  not  to  be 
instructed  as  to  its  moral  aspect,  that  the  precious 
blood  of  Christ  was  as  efiectual  and  as  necessary  to 
wash  away  the  transgression  which  had  involved  him 
in  suffering,  as  any  other  transgression  ;  and  that  he 
must  there,  and  there  alone,  seek  peace  for  his  con- 
science, and  a  hope  that  should  "  not  make  him  asha- 
med."   He  assented,  with  strong  emotion,  to  lliesc 


irO  J'at/irtic  Piecfs. 

representation?,  and  declared  his  abhorrence  of  the 
\\  liole  tran.saclion  "It  Avas  ahvays,"  added  he, 
"  against  my  principieiJ.  I  used  every  expedient  to 
avoid  the  interview  ;  but  1  have  found,  for  some 
time  past,  that  my  ht'e  tm  st  l)e  exposed  to  that  man. 
1  went  to  the  fiikl  dctcnnmcd  not  to  take  hia  life." 
He  repeated  hi.s  disavowal  of  all  intention  to  hurt 
3Ir.  Kurr;  the  anguish  of  his  mind  in  recollecting 
A\  Jiat  had  passed  ;  and  Jiis  humble  hope  of  forgive- 
ness from  his  Ciod. 

I  recurred  to  the  topic  of  the  divine  compassion ; 
tlie  freedom  of  pardon  in  tlie  lledeenier  Jesus  to  pe- 
rishing- sinners.  "  That  grnce,  my  dear  Genera', 
which  brings  salvation,  is  rich,  rich" — "Yes,"  inter- 
rupted he,  "  it  is  rich  grace."  "  And  on  that  grace," 
contiimed  I,  "  a  sinner  has  the  highest  encouragement 
to  repose  his  confidence,  because  it  is  tendered  to  him 
upon  the  surest  foundation;  the  scripture  testifying 
that  Rc  have  rcdnnplion  tlirough  ike  blvod  of  J  sua,  tlie 
forghcnc'ss  of  slna  an  ording  to  the  richness  of  his 
grace."  Here  the  Gt-neral,  letting  go  my  hand, 
which  he  had  held  from  the  moment  I  sat  down  at 
his  bed-side,  clasped  his  hands  together,  and,  look- 
ing up  towards  heaven,  said,  with  emphasis,  "  I  have 
a  tender  reliance  on  the  mercy  of  t!ie  .Almighty,, 
tlu'ough  the  njerits  of  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ."  lie 
re-placed  his  hand  in  mine,  and  appearing  somewhat 
spent,  closed  his  eyes.  A  little  after,  he  fastened 
,  them  on  me,  and  I  proceeded. 

"  The  simple  truths  of  the  gospel,  my  dear  sir, 
wliich  require  no  abstruse  investigation,  l»ut  faith  in 
the  veracity  of  God  w  ho  cannot  lie,  are  best  suited 
to  your  presi  nt  condition,  and  they  are  full  of  conso- 
lation." "  1  f^el  them  to  be  so,"  re|>Jied  he.  I 
then  repeated  these  texts  of  scripture  : — It  is  a  faith- 
ful saving,  and  northy  of  all  acceptation,  that  Christ 
Jesus  came  into  the  world  to  save  dinners,  and  of  sin- 
ners  the  chief.  /,  even  ff  am  he  that  blotteth  out  thi/ 
transgressions  for  mine  orcn  safer,  and  nill  not  remember 
thy  sins.     Co^ncnoiv,  and  let  us  reasyn  together,  sail/i 


Pathetic  Pieces.  ITy 

the  Lord  ;  though  your  sins  be  os  scarlet,  they  shall  be 
nhite  as  S7101V  ;  though  they  be  red  like  crimson,  they 
shall  be  as  wool.  "  This,"  said  he,  "  is  my  sup- 
port. f*ray  for  me."  "  Shall  I  pray  with  you  ?" 
"  Yes."  '  1  prayed  with  hiui,  and  Jieard  liini  w  his- 
per  as  I  went  along ;  which  I  fc\ipposed  to  l)e  his  con- 
currence \\ith  the  petition?.  At  the  conclusion  he 
said,  "  Amen.     God  grant  it." 

Being  about  to  part  with  him,  I  told  him  "  I  had 
one  request  to  make."  He  asked  "  uhat  it  v,as?" 
I  answered,  "  that  whatever  might  be  the  issue  of  his 
affliction,  he  would  give  his  testimony  against  the 
practice  of  duelling."  "  I  wilf,"  said  he,  "  1  have 
done  it.  liihat,"  evidrntly  anticipating  the  event, 
"  if  that  lie  t.he  issue,  you  Avill  find  it  in  writing. 
If  it  please  God  that  I  recover,  1  shall  do  it  in  a  man- 
ner which  will  eiltctually  put  me  out  of  its  reach  in 
future."  I  mentioned,  once  more,  the  importance  of 
renouncing  every  other  dependence  for  tlie  eternal 
world,  but  the  mercy  of  God  in  Christ  Jesus;  with 
a  particular  reference  to  the  catastrophe  of  the  morn- 
ing. The  General  \\as  affected,  and  said,  "  Let  us 
not  pursue  the  subject  any  further,  it  agitates  me." 
lie  laid  his  hands  upon  his  breast,  witli  symptoms  of 
uneasiness,  which  indicated  an  increased  diillculty  of 
speaking.  I  then  took  my  have.  He  pressed  ray 
hanct  ailectionately,  and  desired  to  see  me  again  at  a 
proper  interval.  As  I  was  retiring,  he  lifted  up  his 
hands  in  the  attitude  of  pi-ayer,  and  said  fueljiy,  "  God 

be  merciful  to ."     His  voice  suik,  so  that  I  heard 

not  the  rest  distinctly,  but  understood  him  to  quote 
the  words  of  the  publican  in  the  gospel,  and  to  end 
the  sentence  with,  "  me  a  sinner." 

I  saw  him,  a  second  time,  on  the  morning  of 
Thursday ;  l)ut  from  his  appearance,  anel  what  1  had 
heard,  supposing  that  he  could  not  sj^j^eak  without  se- 
vere eflbrt,  I  had  no  conversation  v.ith  him.  1  pray- 
ed for  a  moment  at  his  bed-side,  in  company  with  his 
overwhelmed  family  and  friends;  and  for  the  rest, 
was  one  of  the  mourning  spectators  of  his  composure 


irS  Pathclic  Pieces. 

aiul  dignity  in  fuflcvini^.  His  ininil  remained  in  its 
lODner  state:  and  lie  viewed  with  calmness  liis  ap- 
}>roachini;-  dissolution.  I  left  hini  hetueen  twelve 
and  one,  and  at  t\\  o,  as  the  public  know,  he  breathed 
his  last^ 


SECTION  III. 

i^kc  Close  of  Life. 


When  we  contemplate  the  close  of  life  ;  the  ternii- 
nationof  man's  designs  and  hopes;  tlie  silence  that 
now  reigns  among  those  who,  a  little  while  ago,  were 
so  busy  or  so  gay  ;  w  ho  can  avoid  being  touched  w  itJi 
sensations  at  once  awful  and  tender  ?  Wliat  heart 
but  then  warms  with  the  glow  of  humanity?  In 
wiiose  eye  does  not  the  tear  gather,  on  revolving  on 
the  fate  of  passing  and  short-ltved  man  ? 

Beliold  llie  poor  man  who  lays  down  at  last  the  bur- 
den of  his  wearisome  life.  No  more  shall  he  groan 
imder  tjie  load  of  j)overty  and  toil.  No  more  bhall  lie 
hefjr  the  insolent  calls  of  the  master,  from  whom  he 
received  ]iis  scanty  wag'^s.  No  more  shall  he  be 
raised  from  needful  slaaiber  on  his  bed  of  straw,  nor 
be  hurried  away  from  his  Iiomely  meal,  to  undergo 
the  repeated  labours  of  the  day.  While  his  humble 
grave  is  preparing,  and  a  few  poor  and  decayed  neigh- 
bours are  carrying  hiiu  thither,  it  is  good  for  us  to 
think,  thiit  this  man  too  was  our  brother ;  that  for  him 
the  aged  and  destitute  wife,  and  t!ie  needy  chiSdreu 
»vecp  ;  tliai,  negle«te<l  as  he  'vas  by  tlie  world,  he  pos- 
sessird,  perJiaps,  bth  a  sound  understand  iijg,  and  a 
worthy  jieart ;  and  is  now  carried  by  angels  to  rest  in 
Abraham's  bosom. — .\t  no  great  distance  from  him, 
tJ)c  grave  is  opened  to  receive  the  rich  and  proud  man. 
For,  as  it  is  said  with  emphasis  in  the  pai-able,  *'  the 


raiftclic  Pieces.  Wd 

vie"*-  man  also  died  and  v.  as  huricd."  lit  also  di«l. 
Eii  riches  prevented  not  liis  flidrit);:;  tl)C  ^;;»nie  fate 
i\  ith  tJie  poor  man ;  pcrlmp!-,  Ihrougii  luxury,  tliey  ac- 
cellerated  his  doom.  Then,  indeed,  '•  tiie  mouniers 
1^0  about  the  streets"  ;  and  while  in  all  tiie  pomp  and 
iuagnificcnce  of  woe,  histfuncral  ie  preparing-,  his  heirs 
impatient  to  exann^no  his  -ai!!,  are  ,'r.okini^  on  one  an- 
other V.  ith  jeaions  eyen,  and  already  bL'^innini;  to  dis- 
pute alwut  tiic  divi:~ion  of  his  snhstaiice. 

OiiC  da}',  we  s<;c  carried  a!rji;g  t{:e  coHlri  of  the  smil- 
ing infant ;  the  tlow-r  just  nipt  as  it !)  gan  to  blossom 
in  the  parent's  viev/ ;  and  the  next  day,  we  Ixhold  the 
youn^^  man,  or  younji^  woman,  of  b^Icomini;  form  and 
promidng  hopes,  laid  in  an  antirneiy  grave.  vVhilc 
the  funeral  is  att^/tded  i)y  a  numerous  unconeerned 
company,  "^vho  are  discoursing  to  one  another  a!)Out 
the  news  of  the  day,  or  the  ordiniiry  aifairs  of  life,  let 
cur  thoughts  rather  follow  to  the  house  of  mourning, 
and  represent  to  themselves  what  is  passing  there. 
There  we  shall  see  a  disconsolate  family,  sitting  in  si- 
lent grief,  thinking  of  the  sad  ])reach  that  is  made  in 
their  lit  tie  society ;  and  with  tears  in  their  eyes,  look- 
ing to  the  chamber  that  is  now  hft  vacant,  and  to  ev- 
ery memorial  t'lat  jircstnt'^  itself  of  tlicir  d^'parled 
friend.  By  such  attntior)  to  the  woes  of  others,the 
selfish  liardness  of  our  hearts  ^  ill  be  gradually  soften- 
ed, and  melted  down  into  humanity. 

Another  drxy,  we  follow  to  the  grave,  one  wlio  in 
old  age,  and  after  a  long  career  of  life,  ha-,  in  full  ma- 
tui'iiy  sunk  at  last  into  r-st.  As  we  arc  going  along 
to  the  m^andon  of  the  dead,  it  is  natural  for  u-  to  thin!:, 
and  to  di:~course,  of  all  the  changrs  w  hich  such  a  per- 
son has  seen  during  the  course  of  liis  life.  He  has 
past,  it  is  iikeiy,  through  varieties  cf  fortune.  He  has 
experienced  prosperity,  and  adversity.  He  has  seen 
families  and  kindred  rise  and  fall;  the  face  of  hii 
country  undergo  many  allerations ;  and  the  very  place 
in  which  he  dv.elt,  rising  hi  a  manner  new  arounf]. 
him.  After  all  he  has  heh;^,id,  his  eyes  are  now  closed 
for  ever.     He  was  hecomin.g  a  stranger  in  the  midst 


180  Pathetic  Pieces. 

of  a  new  succession  of  men.  A  race  m  ho  hncw  liim 
not,  had  arisen  to  fill  the  cajth.  Thus  passes  the 
tvorld  away. 

Throu-;Iiout  all  ranks  and  conditions,  "  one  2:enera- 
tion  passeth,  and  another  generation  comet h" ;  and 
this  great  iiiM  is  liy  turns  evacuated,  and  replenished 
hy  troops  of  succeeding  pilgrims. — O  vain  and  incon- 
stant world.'  O  fleeting  and  transient  life  !  \Mien 
will  the  sons  of  nitn  learn  to  think  of  thte  as  they 
ou:^ht  ?  W  hen  will  they  learn  humanily  from  the 
-a^ilictions  of  their  brethren  ;  or  ni(*deration  and  wis- 
dom, from  the  sense  of  their  own  fugitive  state  ? 


SECTION  IV. 
The  Dijing  Infidel. 

PiiorLG  doubt  Ijecausethcy  w  ill  doubt.  Dreadful 
disposition!  Can  nothing  discover  thine  enormity? 
What  is  infidelity  good  for  ?  By  what  charm  doth  it 
lull  the  soul  into  a  willing  ignorance  of  its  origin  and 
end  ?  If,  during  the  fhort  space  of  a  mortal  life,  the 
love  of  independence  tenjpt  us  to  phase  ourselves  w  ith 
joining  this  monstrous  party :  how  dear  w  ill  the  union 
cost  us  when  we  come  to  die ! 

O!  were  my  tongue  dipped  in  the  gall  of  celestial 
displeasure,  I  w  ould  describe  to  you  the  state  of  a  man 
expiring  in  tlie  cruel  uncertainties  of  unbelief ;  who 
seeth,  if)  si.ite  of  himself,  yea,  in  spite  of  himself,  the 
truth  of  that  religion,  which  he  hath  endeavoured  to 
ni  purpose  to  eradicate  from  his  heart.  Ah  i  see! 
every  thing  contributes  to  trouble  him  now.  "  lam 
dying — !  despair  of  recovering — Physicians  have  giv- 
en me  over — The  sighs  and  tears  of  my  friends  are 
useless — vet  tJiey  have  nothing  else  to  bestow — Medi- 
cines take  no  effect — consultations  come  to  nothing — 
;i]as!  not  vou — ::ot  mv  li+i>!e  fortune— tlie  world  can- 


Pathetic  Pieces.  181 

Bot  cnre  me — T  mast  die. — It  is  not  a  preacher — it  is 
not  a  reli,i;ious  book — it  is  not  a  trilling  cUclaimer— 
it  is  death  itself  tliat  preachilh  to  me~-l  ftel,  1  know 
not  \s  hat,  shivering  cold  in  my  blood — I  am  in  a  dy- 
inij  sweat — my  feet,  my  hands,  every  part  of  my  bo- 
dy is  wasted — I  am  more  like  a  corpse  than  a  living 
]3ody — I  am  rather  dead  than  alive — I  must  dis — 
Whither  am  I  going  ?  ^\  hat  'h  ill  become  of  me  ? 
\Vhat  Avill  become  of  my  body  ?  My  God  !  what  a 
frightful  spectacle  !  I  see  it !  'I'he  horrid  torches — 
the  dismal  shroud — the  cofiin — tiie  pail — the  tolling 
bell^ — tl;e  subterranean  abode — carcases — worms — 
putreOicti  )n — AVhat  will  become  of  my  fioifl  ?  1  am 
ignorant  of  its  destiny — I  am  tumbling  headlong  into 
eternal  night — my  infidelity  -tells  me,  my  soul  is  no- 
thing but  a  portion  of  subtile  matter — another  world 
a  vision — immortality  a  fancy — But  yet,  I  feel,  I  know- 
not  what,  that  trou!>l€s  my  infidelity — annihilatioti, 
terrible  as  it  is,  would  appear  tolerable  to  me,  were 
not  the  ideas  of  h.-aven  and  hell  to  present  themselves 
to  me,  in  spite  of  myself — But  I  see  that  heaven,  that 
immortal  mansion  of  glory,  shut  against  rae — I  see  it 
at  an  immense  distance — 1  see  it  a  place  which  my 
crimes  forbid  me  to  enter — J  see  a  hell — hell,  which  I 
have  ridiculed — it  opens  under  my  feet — 1  hear  tiie 
liorrible  groans  of  the  damucd— the  smoke  of  the  bot- 
tomless pit  choaks  ray  words,  and  wraps  my  thoughts 
in  suifocating  darkness." 

Such  is  the  infidel  on  a  dying-bed.  Thi^  is  not  an  im- 
aginary (light :  it  is  nut  an  arbitrary  invention,  it  is  a 
description  of  what  we  see  every  day  in  the  fatal  visits 
to  which  our  ministry  engagcth  us,  and  to  which  God 
sccins  to  call  us  to  be  sorrowful  w  itnesses  of  his  dis- 
pleasure and  vengeance.  Tiiis  is  what  infidelity  comr-s 
to.  This  is  what  infidelity  is  good  for.  Thus  most 
sec;  tics  die,  although,  while  they  live,  they  pretend 
to  free  themselve!?  from  vulgar  errors.  I  a?k  again, 
what  charms  are  there  in  a  state,  that  hath  such  uread« 
ful  consequences  ?  How  Is  it  pos'^iblc  for  men,  I'atioH- 
al  men,  to  carry  their  madness  to  s^ch  an  e-^eO'fs  ? 
Q 


CHAP.  VI. 
VEOMISC UO  U3  PIECES. 


SECTION  I. 
Novels  and  Romances. 

One  of  the  most  obvious  distinctions  of  the  works 
of  romance  is,  an  utter  violation  -jf  all  the  relations 
between  ends  and  mean?.  Sometimes  such  ends  are 
proposed  to  seem  quite  dissevered  from  means,  inas- 
much to  tJiere  are  scarcely  and  supposable  means  on 
earth  to  accomplish  them  :  but  no  matter  ;  if  we  can- 
not ride  we  must  swim,  if  wc  cannot  swim  we  must 
fly  :  the  object  is  eifected  by  a  mere  poetical  omnipo- 
tence that  wills  it.  And  very  often  pracl  icable  objects 
are  attained  by  means  the  most  fantastic,  improbable, 
or  inadequate ;  so  that  there  is  scarcely  any  resem- 
blance between  the  method  in  which  they  are  accom- 
plished by  the  dexterity  of  fiction,  and  that  in  which 
the  same  things  must  be  attempted  in  the  actual  econ- 
omy of  the  world.  Now,  when  you  see  this  absurdi- 
ty of  imagination  prevailing  in  the  calculations  of  real 
life,  you  may  justly  apply  the  epithet  romantic. 

Indeed  a  strong  and  haf)itually  indulged  imagina- 
tion may  be  so  aljsorbetl  in  the  end,  if  it  is  not  a  con- 
cern ofabsolute  immediate  urgency,  as  for  a  while  quits 
to  forget  the  process  of  attainment.  It  has  incantations 
to  dissolve  the  rigid  laws  of  time  and  distance,  and 
place  a  man  in  something  so  like  the  presence  of  hi^ 
object,  that  he  seems  half  to  possess  it ;  and  it' is  hard 
while  occupying  the  verge  of  Paradise,  to  I)e  flung  far 
back  in  order  to  find  or  make  a  path  to  it,  with  tlie 
slow  and  toihome  steps  of  reality.  In  the  luxury  of 
promising  himself  that  what  he  wishes  will  by  some 
means  take  place  at  soms  time,  he  forgets  that  he  is 


FromiscuGus  Ficces,  J83 

advancing  no  nearer  to  it — except  on  the  w  ise  and  pa- 
tient calculation  that  he  must, by  the  simple  movement 
6f  growing  older,  be' coming  somewhat  nearer  to  ev- 
ery event  that  is  yet  to  happen  to  him.  lie  is  like  a 
traveller,  Avho,  aniid.-t  his  indolent  mushigs  in  some 
soft  bower,  where  lie  sat  down  to  be  shaded  a  little 
while  from  tiic  rays  of  the  noon,  falls  asleep,  and 
dreams  lie  is  in  the  midst  of  all  the  endearments  of 
Jiouic,  insensible  that  there  are  many  hills  and  dales 
for  him  yet  to  traverse.  But  the  traveller  will  awake ; 
£0  too  will  the  man  of  fancy,  and  if  he  has  tlie  small- 
est capacity  of  just  reflection,  he  m  ill  regret  to  have 
wasted  in  reveries  the  time  which  ought  to  have  been 
devoted  to  practical  exertion. 

But  even  though  remim'ed  of  the  ncccsi-ity  of  in- 
tervening means,  the  man  of  imagination  w  ill  often  be 
tempted  to  violate  their  relation  w  ith  ends,  by  permit- 
ting himself  to  dwell  on  those  happy  casualties  which 
the  prohfic  sorcery  of  his  mind  w  ill  promptly  figure 
to  him  as  the  very  things,  if  they  would  but  occur,  to 
accomplish  his  w  ishes  at  once,  %\  ithout  the  toil  of  a  so- 
ber process.  If  they  would  occur — and  things  as 
strange  vii^'-ht  happen :  he  reads  in  the  Ile^vspapers 
that  an  estate  of  twenty  thousand  pounds  per  annum 
was  lately  adjudged  to  a  man  w  ho  was  working  on  tJic 
road.  He  has  even  heard  of  people  dreaming  that  in 
such  a  place  something  valuable  was  concealed  ;  and 
that,  on  searching  or  digging  that  plac^,  they  found  an 
old  earthen  pot,  full  of  gold  and  silver  pieces  of  the 
times  of  good  king  Charles  the  IMartyr.  Mr.  B.  was 
travelling  by  the  uiail  coach,  in  which  he  met  w itii  a 
most  interesting  young  lady,  w  horn  he  had  never  seen 
before  ;  they  were  mutually  delighted,  and  w ere  mar- 
ried in  a  few  week  ^.  Mv.  C.  a  man  of  great  merit  in 
obscurity,  w  as  w  alking  across  a  field  w  hen  liOrd  U.  in 
chase  of  a  fox,  leaped  over  a  hedge,  and  fell  oil  his 
horse  intaa  ditch.  ]\lr.  (-\  w  ith  the  utmost  alacrity 
and  kind  solicitude  helped  his  lordship  out  of  the  ditch, 
and  recovered  fur  him  his  escaped  horse.  The  con- 
ecqucnce  was  inevitable ;  his  lordship,  superior  to  the 


'iS-l  J*romiscuous  rUccs. 

j)ri(le  of  bei(ig  mortified  to  have  l^en  seen  in  a  coijdi^ 
lion  Ko  unlucky  for  giving  tlie  imprcssian  of  nobility, 
eonimenoed  a  friendship  \v  ith  ]Mr.  C.  and  introduced 
him  into  honoinablc  society  and  the  road  to  fortune. 
A  very  aJicient  maiden  lady  of  large  fortune  happen- 
ing to  be  embarrassed  in  a  crowd,  a  young  clergyman 
fjii'ercd  her  his  arm,  and  politely  attended  her  home; 
liis  attention  so  captivated  her,  that  she  bequeatlied 
to  him,  soon  after,  I  he  w  iiole  estate,  though  she  had 
many  poor  relations. 

That  class  of  fictitious  works  called  novels^  though 
much  more  like  real  life  than  the  romances  which  pre- 
ceded them,  (and  which  are  now,  with  some  altera'- 
f  ions  partly  Qome  into  vogue  again,)  is  yet  full  of  these 
lucky  incidents  and  adventures,  m  hich  are  introduced 
us  the  chief  means  towards  the  ultimate  success.  A 
young  man  without  fortune,  for  instance,  is  precluded 
from  making  his  addresses  to  a  young  female  in  a  su- 
perior situation,  whom  he  l>^lieveFnot  indifferent  to 
him,  until  he  can  approach  her  Mith  such  worldly  ad- 
vantages, as  it  might  not  be  imprudent  or  degrading 
for  her  to  acc>f'[)t.  Now  how  is  this  to  be  accomplish- 
ed?'— Why,  I  suppose  by  the  exertion  of  his  talents 
in  some  fair  and  practicable  department ;  and  pcr- 
kaps  the  lady  besides  will  generously  abdicate  for  his 
i^ake  some  of  the  trapjjings  and  luxuries  of  rank. — 
Ycu  really  suppose  thi£  is  the  plan  ?  I  am  sorry  you 
have  so  muph  less  genius  than  a  novel-writer.  This 
young  i?ian  lias  ?a\  uncle  \yho  lias  been  absent  a  long 
Jime,  no  body  knew  where,  except  the  young  man's 
lucky  stars.  JDuiing  his  absence,  the  old  uncle  has 
i^ainfcd  a  large  fortune,  ^v^th  which  he  returns  to  lus 
native  land,  at  a  time  most  opportune  for  every  o5ie, 
but  a  liighwayman,  who  attacks  him  m  a  road  through 
a  wood,  but  is  friglitencd  away  by  the  young  luro, 
•who  happens  to  come  there  at  tl^e  in-^tant,  to  rescue 
and  recognize  his  uncle,  and  to  be  in  retu^  recog- 
nized and  made  the  heir  to  as  many  thousands  as  the 
jady  or  her  family  could  wish.  Must  not  the  read- 
er think  it  ^ery  iikely  that  he  too  has  some  old"'uncle, 


Promiscuous  FieCcs.  1S5 

or  acquaintance  at  least,  returning  m  ith  a  ship-load 
of  wealth  from  tiie  East  Indies;  and  very  desirable 
that  the  highwayman  sliould  make  one  such  attempt 
more ;  and  very  (crtcdn  that  in  that  case  he  sliould  be 
there  in  time  to  catch  aJi  that  fortune  sends?  One's 
indignation  is  excited  at  the  Immoral  tendency  of  such 
lessons  to  young  readers,  ^vlio  are  thus  taught  to  re- 
gard all  sober  regular  |)!aiis  for  compassing  an  object 
\sith  disgust  or  despondency,  and  to  muse  on  impro- 
babilities till  they  ))ecome  foolish  enough  to  expect 
them,  and  to  be  melanclioly  when  they  find  they  may 
expect  them  in  vain.  It  is  mipardonable  that  these 
pretended  instructors  by  example  should  tluis  ex- 
plode the  calculations  and  exertions  of  manly  resolu- 
tjon,  destroy  the  connection  between  ends  and  mean?, 
and  make  the  rewards  of  virtue  so  depend  on  chance, 
that  if  the  reader  does  not  either  regard  the  whole  fa- 
ble with  contempt,  or  promise  himself  he  shall  receive 
DO  favours  of  fortune  in  some  similar  v/ay,  he  must 
close  the  book  with  the  conviction  that  he  may  hang 
or  drown  himself  as  soon  as  he  pleases ;  that  is  to  say, 
unless  he  has  learnt  from  some  other  source  a  better 
morality  and  religion  than  these  books  will  ever 
teach  him 


SECTION  IL 

Duelling, 


Perw APS  there  is  not  any  word  in  the  English 
language  less  understood  that  honour,  and  but  few 
that  might  not  have  been  equally  mistaken,  without 
producing;  equal  mischief.  Honour  is  both  a  motive 
and  an'  end.  As  «  a  principle  of  action,"  it  diifers 
from  Virtue  only  in  degree,  and  therefore  necessari- 
}y  includes  it,  as  Generosity  includes  Justice;  and 
as  "  a  reward,"  it  can  be  deserved  only  by  those  ac- 
0.2 


186-  Promiscuous  Pieces. 

tions  whicli  no  other  principle  can  produce.  To  say 
of  anotliei',  "  That  lie  is  a  man  of  Honour,"  is  at 
once  to  attribute  the  principle,  and  to  confer  the  re- 
gard :  hut  in  the  common  acceptation  of  the  word, 
HONOFR,  as  a  principle,  does  not  include  virtue  ;  and 
therefore,  as  a  reward,  is  frequently  bestowed  upon 
vice.  Hence,  (suck  is  the  blindness  and  vassalage  of 
human  reason)  ni«n  are  discouraged  from  virtue  for 
fear  of  shame,  and  incited  to  vice  by  the  hope  of 
honour.  Honour,  indeed,  is  always  claimed  in  spa- 
cious terms ;  but  the  facts  upon  which  the  claim  i« 
founded  are  often  flagitiously  wicked. 

Honour,  as  a  principle,  is  the  refinement  of  virtue  ; 
as  the  end,  it  is  the  splendour  of  reputation,  the  re- 
ward of  such  virtue ;  and  the  true  man  of  honour  is 
he,  who,  from  the  native  excellence  and  real  dignity 
of  justice,  goodness,  and  truth,  is  led  to  act  at  all 
times  consistently  with  them ;  ever  reverencing  his 
conscience  and  his  character,  and  solicitous  to  fill  up 
the  great,  the  worthy  part,  far  a!x)ve  the  narrov/  re- 
straint and  coercion  of  the  laws,  or  the  fallible  tes- 
timony of  mere  human  judgment.  And  can  it  be 
supposed  that  a  principle  like  this  can  ever  allow,  can 
fever  justify  the  hazarding  our  own,  or  taking  away 
the  life  of  a  brother,  for  a  sligiit,  nay,  for  the  great- 
est affront  imaginable  ?  Can  it  \ye.  supposed  that  a 
principle  Uke  this  can  ever  give  rise  to  duels,  or  at- 
tain its  great  end  and  rev.ard,  a  splendid  reputation, 
.in  consequence  oi  them? 

IMen  instigated  by  the  meanest  passions,  with  re- 
venge and  guilt  boiling  in  their  hearts,  preparing  by 
*,he  pistol  or  the  sword  to  &nish  each  other's  short  and 
precarious  existence;  and  to  plunge,  the  one  with  all 
his  vices  blossoming  upon  hi?r.,  into  aAvfuI  eternity ; 
the  other,  to  drag  the  miserable  remains  of  life,  haunt- 
ed with  the  distracting  consciousness  of  his  brother's, 
his  friend's,  perhaps  his  once  dearest  friend's  murder 
jpon  his  soul.  Perhaps  he  lives  the  sole  hope  and 
^lay  of  some  ancient  and  venerable  house  -,  and  after 
^\  the  labour  and  anxiety  of  youthful  education  \$^ 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  187 

past,  is  advancing  on  tlie  great  theatre  of  the  world, 
th«  delight  of  his  friends,  and  the  solicitous  expecta- 
tion of  his  aiiectionate  paixntf^,  \\]jo,  in  tlic  decline 
of  life,  see  with  transport  their  youth  renewed,  and 
the  hopes  and  honour  of  their  family  re-llourishing 
hi  their  beloved  son. 

But  dearer,  tenderer  ties  still  remain  to  twine  about 
the  heart,  to  touch  it  with  the  keenest  sensibility,  ajid" 
to  preserve  it  from  the  seducing  calls  of  false  Iionour 
and  romantic  bravery.  If  thou  wilt  needs  engage  in 
the  desperate  duel,  sec,  on  one  side,  to  unnerve  thy 
wretcli'ed  arm — Honoiu',  reason,  humanity,  religion, 
disavowing  the  deed  ;  and  from  what  source  thea 
tihail  Courage  spring  ?  And,  on  the  other  side,  see 
the  faithftd  and  beloved  partner  of  thy  bed,  with 
streaming  eyes,  and  iinguish  too  great  for  utterance, 
pointing  to  the  iittle  pledges  of  your  mutual  aiiec- 
tion,  and  with  dumb  but  expressive  oratory,  bcAvail- 
ing  her  widowed  and  their  orphan  state ! 

EXAill'LES. 

iiuoEN'io,  in  consequence  of  a  quarrer  with  the  illi- 
beral and  brutish  Ventosus,  received  a  challenge  from 
the  latter,  which  he  answered  by  the  following  bil- 
let : — "  Sir,  your  behaviour  last  night  lias  convinced 
me  t.hat  you  are  a  scoundrel;  and  j^our  letter  thi? 
morning,  that  you  are  a  fool.  Iff  should  accept  your 
"•Jiallenge,  1  should  myself  be  l)oth.  I  owe  a  dutv  tro 
God  and  my  country,  which  I  deem  it  infamous  to 
violate ;  and  I  am  entrusted  with  a  life,  "rtduch  I 
think  caiinot  wdtaqat  folly  be  staked  against  yours, 
J  believe  you  have  ruined,  but  you  canr.ot  degrade- 
nic.  You  may  possibly,  while  you  sr^eer  over  this 
ietttr,  secretly  exuit  in  your  own  safeAy ;  but  remem- 
ber, that,  to  prevent  assassinatior,  I  have  a  sword  ^ 
and  to  chastise  insolence,  a  cano." 

FoRorvENEvs  of  injuries,  -^nd  a  merciful  disposi- 
tion towards  those  who  hr^ve  offended  us,  is  not  only 
an  intaiiibie  mark  of  a  reeat  and  noble  mind,  but  it 


168  Promiscuous  Fi'rccj. 

k  our  indispensable  duty,  as  rcaPona])le  creatures,  anil 
peculiarly  so  as  Christians.  The  following  is  a  fine 
example  of  this  virtue  :  Gaston,  marquis  de  Kenty, 
an  illustrious  nobleman,  was  a  soldier  and  a  Chris- 
tian ;  and.  had  a  peculiar  felicity  to  reconcile  the 
seeming  opposition  between  t  hose  characters.  He  had 
a  command  in  the  French  army ;  and  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  receive  a  challenge  from  a  person  of  dis- 
tinction in  the  same  service.  The  marquis  returned 
for  answer,  That  he  was  ready  to  convince  the  gen- 
tleman that  he  was  in  the  wrong ;  or,  if  he  could  not 
convince  him,  was  as  ready  to  a-^k  his  pardon.  The 
other,  not  satisfied  with  this  reply,  insisted  upon  his 
jiieeting  him  w  ith  the  sword  ;  to  which  the  marquis 
gent  this  ans\ver:  "  That  lie  was  resolved  not  to  do 
it,  since  God  and  liis  king  had  forbidden  it  ;  other- 
wise, he  would  have  him  know,  that  all  the  endea- 
vours he  had  used  to  pacify  him  did  not  proceed 
from  any  fear  of  him,  but  of  Almighty  God,  and  his 
displeasure:  that  he  should  go  every  day  about  his 
tisual  business,  and  if  he  did  assault  him,  he  w  ould 
make  him  rei)cnt  it."  The  angry  man,  not  able  to 
provoke  the  marquis  to  a  due},  and  meeting  VSm  one 
day  by  chance,  drew  his  sword  and  attacked  him. 
The  marquis  soon  wounded  and  disarmed  both  him 
and  his  second,  with  the  assistance  of  a  servant  who 
attended  him.  Bat  then  did  this  truly  Christian  no- 
bleman shew  the  difference  betwixt  a  brutish  and  a 
Christian  courage;  for,  leading  tliem  to  liis  tent,  he 
refreshed  them  witJi  wine  and  cordials,  caused  their 
i  w^ounds  to  be  dressed,  and  their  swords  to  be  restor- 
ed to  them  ;  then  dismissed  thera  with  Christian  and 
friendly  advice  ;  and  was  never  heard  to  mention  the 
tiffair  afterwards,  even  to  his  nearest  friends.  It  was 
an  usual  saying  with  this  great  man,  "  That  there 
v/as  more  true  courage  and  generosity  in  bearing  and 
forgiving  an  injury,  for  the  bve  of  God,  than  in  re- 
quiting it  with  another:  in  suffering,  rather  than  re- 
venging ;  because  the  thing  was  really  more  difficult. **^ 
Adding,  '=  that  balls  and  bears  had  courage  enough.. 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  189 

l?ut  it  \\as  a  {)rutal  courap^e,  uhcrcas  that  of  men 
chould  be  such  as  become  rational  beings  and  Clirie- 
tians." 

A  QUAURKL  having  arisen  between  a  celebrated  gen- 
tleman in  the  literary  world  and  one  of  his  acquaint- 
ance, the  latter  heroically,  and  no  less  laconically, 
ttoncluded  a  letter  to  the  former,  on  tlie  subject  of  the 
dispute,  with,  <*  I  have  a  life  at  your  service,  if  you 
dare  to  take  it."  To  Mhicb  the  other  replied,  "  You 
say  you  have  a  lifo  at  ray  service,  if  I  dare  to  take  it. 
I  must  confess  to  you,  that  I  dare  not  take  it :  I 
thank  my  God,  that  I  have  not  the  courage  to  take  it. 
But  though  1  own  that  1  am  afraid  to  deprive  you  of 
your  life,  yet,  sir,  permit  me  to  assure  you,  that  I  ara 
equally  thankful  to  the  Almighty  Being,  for  merci- 
fully l)esto\ving  on  me  sullicient  resolution,  if  attack- 
od,  to  defend  my  own."  This  unexpected  kind  of 
reply  had  the  proper  effect ;  it  brought  the  madman 
back  again  to  reason  ;  friends  intervened,  and  the  af- 
fair was  compromised. 

Myktle,  a  character  in  "  Steele's  Cwiscious  Lov- 
ers," delivers  the  following  just  sentiments  on  this 
subject :  "  How  ma)iy  friends  have  died  by  the  hands 
of  friends  for  the  want  of  temper  I  There  is  nothing 
manly  but  w  hat  is  conducted  by  reason,  and  agreea* 
ble  to  the  practice  of  virtue  and  justice  ;  and  yet  how 
inany  have  been  sacrificed  to  that  idol  the  unreasonar 
ble  opinion  of  men ! 

■  Beircycd  by  honour,  and  compelled  ut^  shainef 
They  hazard  being  to  preserve  a  name." 

Sir  Walter  Raleigh  (a  man  of  known  courage 
and  honour)  being  very  injuriously  treated  by  a  hot- 
headed, rash  youth,  who  next  proceeded  to  chal- 
lenge him,  and  on  his  refusal  spit  upon  him,  and  that 
too  in  public ;  the  knight,  taking  out  his  handkerchief, 
^vith  great  calmness  made  him  only  this  reply : — 
*'  Young  man,  if  I  could  as  easily  wipe  your  blood 
from  my  conscience,  as  I  can  this  injury  from  my 


190  Promiscuous  Pieces. 

face,  I  would  this  moment  take  away  your  life." 
The  consequence  was,  tliat  the  youth,  struck  with  a 
sudden  and  strong  sense  of  his  niishehaviour,  fell 
upon  his  knees,  and  ]>cgged  fori^iveness. 

It  is  no  uncommon  thing,  m  ilh  persons  of  duelling 
propensity,  to  make  a  very  liberal  but  inexplicable, 
use  of  the  term  "  Satisfaction."  An  honest  country 
gentleman  had  the  misfortune  to  fall  into  company 
with  tw  o  or  three  modern  men  of  honoui',  where  he 
happened  to  be  very  ill  treated.  One  of  the  compa- 
ny, being  conscious  of  his  oiiencc,  sent  a  note  to  him 
the  next  morning,  telling  him,  "  he  was  ready  to  give 
him  satisfaction."  "  ^\  hy  surely  now  (says  the  plain, 
honest  man)  tliis  is  fine  doing:  last  night  he  sent  me 
away  very  much  out  of  temper;  and  this  morning 
he  fancies  it  would  be  a  satisfaction  to  me  to  be  run 
througli  the  body !" 

It  is  reported  of  the  famous  Viscount  de  Turrenne, 
that  when  he  was  a  young  officer,  at  the  seige  of  a 
fortified  town,  he  had  no  less  than  twelve  challenges 
sent  him  ;  all  of  which  he  put  in  his  pocket  without 
further  notice  :  but  being  soon  after  commanded  up- 
on a  desperate  attack  on  some  part  of  the  fortifica- 
tions, he  sent  a  billet  to  each  of  his  challengers,  ac- 
quainting them,  "  that  Uc  had  received  tlicir  papers, 
which  he  doftrred  answering  until  a  proper  occasion 
offered,  both  for  tliem  and  himself,  to  exert  their 
courage  for  the  king's  service  ;  tliat  being  ordered  to 
assault  the  enemy's  works  next  day,  he  desired  their 
company;  wlien  they  ^ould  have  an  opportunity  of 
signalizing  their  own  bravery,  and  of  being  witnesses 
of  his."  We  may  leave  the  reader  to  determine,  in 
this  case,  who  acted  most  like  a  man  of  sense,  of  tem- 
per, and  of  true  courage. 

When  Augustus  Cjusar  received  a  challenge  from 
j\Tark  Anthony  (in  his  decline  of  fortune)  to  engage 
him  in  single  combat,  he  very  calmly  answered  the 
bearer  of  the  message,  "  If  Anthony  is  weary  of  bis 
life,  tell  him  there  are  other  w  ays  of  death  besides 
the  point  of  my  sword !"     Now,  who  ever  deemed 


rromiscuous  ricrcs.  Vjl 

tills  an  instance  of  cowardice  ?  All  ages  have  admir- 
ed it  as  tlie  act  of  a  discictt  and  gallanl  man  ;  who, 
ftih<-il)le  (fins  own  ini|)()rtantx',  knew  how  1o  treat  the 
petulant  and  vindictive  liumour  of  a  discontented  ad- 
vert^ary  w  ith  its  i)roper  conti  nipt. 


SECTION  in. 

J  compendious  J'ictv  of  the  principal  Contents  of  the 
Holy  Scriptures. 

That  book  which  we  call  tjjk  V'lni.K,  (that  i«,  tuk 
Book,  by  way  of  eminence,)  although  it  is  comprised 
in  cnc' volume,  yjt  in  fact  comprehtnds  a  irreat  num- 
ber of  diherent  Jiarrativcs  and  compcMtion-,  written 
at  different  times,  by  diiTcretit  persons,  in  diilerent 
languages,  and  on  diii'erent  subjects.  And  taking  the 
w  hole  of  the  collection  togRt!i?r,  it  is  an  unquestiona- 
ble truth  that  there  is  no  one  bonk  extant,  in  any  lan- 
guage, or  in  any  country,  which  can  in  any  degree 
be  compared  with  it  for  antiquity,  for  authority,  for 
the  importance,  the  dignity,  the  variety,  and  the  cu- 
riosity of  the  matter  it  contains. 

It  begins  witii  that  great  and  stupendous  event,  of 
all  others  the  earliest  and  most  interesting  to  the  hu- 
man race,  the  creation  of  tliis  work!,  of  the  heaven,, 
and  the  earth,  of  the  herbs  of  the  field,  the  "^ei  and  its 
inhabitants.  All  this  it  describes  \s'\\ h  a  brevity  and 
sublimity,  well  suited  to  the  magnitude  of  the  sul)- 
j^:ct,  to  tlie  dignity  of  the  A  imighty  Artificer,  and  un- 
equalled by  any  other  writer.  Lnr  therf,  bk  j.i<;ht 
AND  THRRE  WAS  Lif'.UT  ;  IS  an  iutauce  of  the  sublime, 
which  stands  to  this  day  unrivalled  in  any  human 
composition. 

But  what  is  of  infinitely  greater  nmment,  thic  his- 
tory of  the  creation  has  settled  forever  that  mot  im- 
portant qnestion,  which  the  ancient  sages  were  never 


102  Promiscuous  Tieces. 

able  to  decide ;  from  wlicnce  and  from  what  causes 
tliis  world,  with  all  its  inhal)ilants  and  appendages, 
drew  its  origin;  ^^'hether  from  some  inexpHcable  ne- 
cessity, from  a  fortuitous  concourse  of  atoms,  from  an 
eternal  series  of  causes  and  eilccts,  or  from  one  su- 
preme, iiiteiiigcnt,  self-existing  Bring,  the  Author  of 
all  thing?,  himself  v.ithout  beginning  a?id  without 
end.  To  this  last  cause  the  inspired  historian  has  a?* 
crilied  the  formation  of  this  system ;  and  by  so  doing 
has  establislitd  that  great  principle  and  foundation  of 
all  religion  and  all  morality,  and  the  great  source  of 
comfort  to  every  human  being,  the  existertce  of  one 
Godf  the  Creator  and  Preserver  of  the  a\  orld,  and  the 
^v•atchful  Super intendant  of  all  the  ci'eatures  that  he 
has  made. 

The  Sacred  History  next  sets  before  us  the  primjc^ 
val  liappiness  of  our  first  parents  in  Paradise;  their 
fall  from  this  blisslul  state  by  the  wilful  transgression 
of  their  Maker's  conunand  ;  the  fatal  effects  of  this 
original  violation  of  duty;  the  imiversal  wickedness 
and  corruption,  it  gradually  introduced  among  man- 
kind; and  the  signal  and  tremendous  punishment  of 
that  wickedness  by  the  deluge ;  the  certainty  of  which 
is  acknowledged  by  the  most  ancient  writers,  and  ve- 
ry evident  traces  of  ^vhich  are  to  be  found  at  this  day 
in  various  parts  of  the  globe. 

It  then  relates  tlie  peopling  of  the  ^vo^Id  again  by 
tlie  family  of  Noah ;  the  covenant  ent  .ed  into  by  God 
with  that  patriarch,  the  relap-^e  of  mankind  into  wick- 
edness ;  the  calling  of  Abraham ;  and  the  choice  of 
one  family  and  people,  the  Israelites,  (or,  as  they 
were  afterwards  called,  the  Jews,)  who  were  separat- 
ed from  the  rc.^t  of  the  world  to  preserve  the  know- 
ledge, and  the  worship  of  a  Suprcra3  Being,  and  the 
great  fundamental  doctrine  of  The  Unity;  while  all 
the  rest  of  mankind,  even  the  wisest  and  most  learn- 
ed, were  devoted  to  polytheism  and  idolatry,  and  ther 
grossest  and  most  abominable  superstitions.  It  then 
gives  us  the  history  of  this  people,  Avith  their  ViU'ious 
migrations,  revolutiojis,  and   principal   transactions* 


i'roDnsiuous  Pieces.  193 

It  recounts  their  removal  from  llic  land  of  Canaan, 
and  their  eptafilislimetit  in  Etcypt  nndcr  Joseph ;  whose 
history  is  related  in  a  manner  so  natural,  ?;o  ir4teresting, 
and  aflecting,  that  it  is  impossible  for  any  man  of  com- 
mon sensibility  to  read  it  withoHt  the  strongest  emo- 
tions of  tenderness  arul  delight. 

In  the  book  of  Exodus  we  have  tlie  deliverance  of 
tins  people  from  their  bondage  in  Egypt,  by  a  series 
of  the  most  astonisjiiiig  miracles ;  and  their  travels 
through  the  wilderness  for  forty  years  under  the  con- 
duct of  Moses  ;  during  which  tisnc  (besides  many  oth- 
er rules  and  directions  for  their  moral  conduct)  tliey 
received  the  Ten  Commandments,  written  on  two  ta- 
bles of  stone  by  the  finger  of  God  himself,  and  deli- 
vered by  him  to  I\Ioses  with  the  most  aw  ful  ajid  tre- 
mendous soJenmity ;  containing  a  code  of  moral  law 
infmiteiy  superior  to  any  tiling  known  to  the  rest  o^ 
mankind  in  those  rude  and  barbarous  ages. 

The  books  of  Leviticus,  Numljftrs,  and  Deuterouo- 
my,  are  chiefly  occupied  w  itla  the  various  other  laws, 
institutions,  and  regulations  given  to  this  people,  re- 
specting tlvir  civil  government,  their  r.ioral  cop- 
duct,  their  religious  duties,  and  their  ceremonial  ob- 
servances. 

Among  these,  the  book  of  Deuteronomy  (which 
concludes  what  is  called  the  Pentateuch  or  hve  books 
of  JMoses)  is  distinguished  above  all  the  rest  by  a  con- 
cise and  strikip.g  recapitulation  of  the  innumerable 
blessings  and  merries  which  they  had  received  from 
God  since  their  drp'^i-ture  from  Horeb  \  by  strong  (}i' 
postulations  on  their  pa^l  rebellions  conduct,  and  their 
sinmcfu!  ingratitude  for  all  these  distinguishing  marks 
of  the  Divine  favour;  by  many  forci')Ie  and  pathetic 
exhortations  to  repentance;  and  obedience  in  future  5 
by  promises  of  the  most  sitbstantial  rewards  if  they 
returned  to  their  duty  ;  and  by  denunciation.-  of  (hj 
severest  pjuniMiments,  if  they  continued  disoVcdiont; 
and  all  tliis  delivered  in  a  strain  of  the  most  animal- 
ed,  subiiiiic,  and  commanding  cIo  jucnce. 

R 


194  Promiscuous  Pieces. 

The  historical  books  of  Josliua,  Judges,  Saumcj, 
Kings,  and  thronicles,  continue  the  Jiistory  of  the 
Jewish  nation  under  their  leaders,  judges,  and  kingr, 
for  near  a  thousand  years :  and  one  of  the  most  pro« 
niinent  and  instructive  parts  of  this  history  is  the  ac- 
count given  of  the  life  and  reign  of  Solomon,  his 
"wealth,  his  power,  and  all  the  glories  of  his  reign  ; 
more  particularly  that  noble  proof  he  gave  of  his  piety 
and  raunificencf,  by  the  construction  of  that  truly 
magnificent  temple  m  hich  bore  his  name  ;  the  solemn 
and  splendid  dedicatioji  of  his  temple  to  the  service  of 
God  ;  and  that  inimitable  prayer  which  he  then  ofler- 
ed  up  to  Heaven  in  the  presence  of  the  ^vhole  Jewish 
people;  a  prayer  evidently  coming  from  the  heart, 
sublime,  shnple,  nervous,  and  pathetic;  exhibiting 
the  justest  and  the  warmest  sentiments  of  piety,  the 
most  exalted  conceptions  of  the  divine  nature,  and 
every  Avay  equal  to  the  sanctity,  the  dignity,  and  the 
solemnity  of  the  occasion. 

Next  to  these  follow  the  Jjooks  of  Ezra  and  Nelie- 
miah,  which  contain  the  history  of  the  Jews  fur  a  con- 
siderable period  of  time  after  their  return  from  a  cap- 
tivity of  rO  years  in  Babylon,  about  which  time  the 
name  of  Jews  seems  first  to  have  been  a})plied  to 
tiiem.  The  book*  of  Ruth  and  Esther  are  a  kind  of 
uppendageto  the  public  records,  delineating  the  cha- 
racters of  two  very  amiabh;  individuals,  distinguished 
by  their  virtues,  and  the  very  inlcresling  incidtnts 
wiiich  belel  thenj,  the  one  in  private,  the  other  in 
public  life,  and  which  were  in  souit*  degree  connected 
with  the  honour  and  prosperity  of  the  nation  to 
■which  they  belonged. 

In  the  book  of  Job  vf  e  have  the  history  of  a  person- 
age of  high  rank,  of  remote  antiquity,  and  extraor- 
dinary virtues;  rendered  remarkable  by  uncon.mon 
vicissitudes  of  fortune,  by  the  most  splendid  prospe- 
rity at  one  time,  by  an  accumulation  of  the  heaviest 
calamities  at  another;  conducting  himself  under  the 
former  \vith  moderation,  uprightness,  and  unbounded 
kindness  to  th**  poor ;  and  wnder  the  latter,  with  the 


^  Promiscuous  Pieces.  19$ 

most  exemplary  patience  and  resignation  to  the  will 
of  Heaven.  The  composilion  is  throughout  the  great- 
er part  highly  poetical  and  figurative,  and  exhibits 
the  noblest  representations  of  tlie  Supreme  Being  and 
a  FiiperiHtendiug  Providence,  together  with  the  most 
admirable  lessons  of  fortitude  and  submission  to  the 
will  of  God  under  the  severest  aflhctions  that  can  l>e- 
fal  human  nature.  The  Psalms,  Avhich  follow  this 
book,  are  full  of  such  exalted  strains  of  piety  and  de- 
votion, such  beautiful  and  animated  descriptions  of 
the  power,  t!ie  wisdom,  the  mercy,  and  the  goodness 
of  God,  that  is  impossible  for  any  one  to  read  them 
wil!j)ut  feeling  his  Iieart  iiillanud  with  tiic  most 
ardent  affection  towards  the  great  Creator  and  Go- 
vcrnour  of  the  universe. 

The  Proverl>s  of  Solomon,  which  come  next  in  or- 
der, contain  a  variety  of  very  excellent  maxims  o/ 
wisdom,  and  invaluable  rules  of  life,  which  have  no 
tvhere  been  exceeded  except  in  the  New-Testament. 
Tliey  aiford  us,  as  they  profess  to  do  at  the  very  first 
outset,  "  the  instruction  of  wisdom,  justice,  judgment, 
and  equity.  They  give  subtilty  to  the  simple ;  to 
the  young  man  knowledge  and  discretion." 

The  same  may  be  said  of  the  greater  part  of  the 
book  of  Ecclesiastes,  which  also  teaches  us  to  form  a 
just  estimate  of  this  w  orld,  and  its  seeming  advantag- 
es of  wealth,  honour,  power,  pleasure,  and  science. 

The  prophetical  writings  present  us  with  the  wor- 
thicot  and  most  exalted  ideas  of  the  Almighty,  the 
jijstest  and  purest  notions  of  piety  and  virtue,  the  aw- 
fullest  denunciations  against  wickedness  of  every  kind, 
public  and  private  ;  i\\e,  most  affectionate  expostula- 
tions, the  most  inviting  promises,  and  tiie  warmest 
concern  for  the  public  good.  And  besides  all  this, 
they  contain  a  series  of  predictions  relating  to  our 
blessed  Lord,  in  which  all  the  remarkable  rircuRi- 
f-tances  of  his  birth,  life,  ministry,  miracles,  doctrines, 
fcUlferings,  and  death,  are  foretold  in  so  minute  and 
exact  a  manner  (more  particularly  in  the  prophecy  of 
Isaiah)  that  you  A\'0uld  almost  think  lliey  were  de- 


^6  Promiscuous  FicccSf 

scribing  all  these  things  after  they  had  happened,  if 
you  did  not  know  that  the.'^epropJiecies  were  confess- 
edly written  many  hundred  years  bc-fure  Christ  came 
into  the  world,  and  svcre  all  tiiat  time  in  Ihe  })Ossessioii 
of  the  Jews,  who  v/ere  tJie  mortal  enemies  of  Chris- 
tianity, and  therefore  could  never  go  about  to  forge 
pro!>ht.cies,  which  most  evidently  prove  him  to  be 
what  he  professed  to  be,  and  what  they  denied  him  to 
be,  the  IMcs.siah  and  the  Son  of  God.  U  is  to  this 
part  of  Scrij)ture  Ihat  our  Lord  particularly  dirtcts 
our  attention,  ^vhen  he  says,  '<  Search  the  Scriptures^ 
for  tiiey  are  they  that  testify  of  mc.^'  The  testimony 
iie  alludes  to  is  that  of  the  prophets;  than  which  rw> 
evidence  can  be  more  satisfactory  and  convincing  to 
uuy  one  that  reads  them  with  care  and  impartiality^ 
and  compares  their  predictions  concerning  our  Sav- 
iour with  the  history  of  his  life,  given  us  by  those  who 
constantly  lived  and  conversed  with  him..  This  his- 
tory v.'e  have  in  the  New- Testament,  in  that  part  of 
it  which  goes  by  the  name  of  Gospkls. 

It  is  tiiese  that  recount  those  wonderful  and  impor- 
tant events,  with  which  the  Christian  religion  and  the 
divioe  Author  of  it  were  introduced  into  the  worlds 
and  wliich  have  produced  so  great  a  change  in  the 
principles,  tlie  manners,  the  morals,  and  the  temporal 
as  weii  as  the  spiritual  condition  of  mankiud.  They 
relate  the  first  appearance  of  Christ  upon  earth  ;  his 
extraordinary  and  miraculous  birth  ;  the  testiiuony 
borne  to  him  by  his  forerunner  John  the  Baptist  ; 
his  tempiatioH  in  the  wilderness  j  the  openhig  of  his 
divine  commission ;  the  pure,  the  perfect,  the  sui)- 
lime  morality  \vhich  he  tau,q:ht,  er-pecially  iij  his  inimi* 
table  sermon  from  t,he  mount  ;  the  inJii^ite  superiority 
which  he  shewed  to  every  other  moral  teacher,  both 
iu  the  matter  and  manner  of  his  discourses;  more- 
particularly  X^y  crusidng  vice  in  its  very  cradle,  in  tlie 
first  risings  of  v/icked  desires  and  propensities  in  the 
heart;  by  giving  a  decided  preference  of  the  mildj 
gentle,  passive,  conciliating  virtues,  to  tliat  violent, 
vindictive,  lii^h-spirited,  unforgiving  temper,  which 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  1^ 

has  been  always  too  much  the  favourite  character  of 
the  world  ;  by  requiring  us  to  forgive  our  very  ene- 
mies, and  to  do  good  to  tliem  that  hate  us ;  by  exclud- 
ing from  our  devotions,  our  ahus,  and  all  our  other 
virtues,  all  regard  to  fame,  reputation,  and  applause; 
by  laying  down  two  great  general  |)rinciples  of  mo- 
rality, love  to  God  and  love  to  mankind,  and  deduc- 
ing from  thence  every  other  human  duty  ;  by  con- 
veying iiis  instructions  under  tlie  easy,  familiar,  and 
impressive  form  of  paraljles ;  by  expressing  himself 
in  a  tone  of  dignity  and  authority  unknown  before  ; 
by  exemplifying  every  virtue  that  be  taught  in  his 
own  unblemished  and  perfect  life  and  conversation  ; 
and  above  all,  by  adding  those  awful  sanctions,  which 
he  alone,  of  all  moral  instructor.-,  had  the  power  to 
hold  out,  eternal  rewards  to  the  virtuous,  and  eternal 
punishments  to  tlie  wiciced. 

Tiie  sacred  narrative  then  represents  to  us  the  higir 
character  he  assumed  ;  the  claim  be  made  to  a  divine 
original ;  the  wonderful  miracles  he  wrought  in  prooi 
of  his  divinity ;  the  various  propliecies  which  plainly 
marked  liim  out  as  the  Messiah,  the  great  deliverer 
of  the  Jews ;  the  declarations  he  made,  that  he  came 
to  oiier  himself  a  sacrifice  for  the  sins  of  all  mankind; 
the  cruel  indignities,  sufferings,^  and  persecutionSy  to 
Avhich,  in  consequence  of  this  great  design,  he  was  ex- 
posed ;  the  accomplishment  of  it  by  the  painful  and 
ignonfinious  death  to  -which  she  submitted  ;  by  hi? 
resurrection  after  three  days  from  the  grave ;  by  his 
ascension  into  heaven ;  by  his  sitting  there  at  the 
right  hand  of  God,  and  performijig  the  ofiicc  of  a  me- 
diator and  intercessor  for  the  sinful  sons  of  men,  till 
he  comes  a  second  time  in  his  glory  to  sit  in  judgment 
on  all  mankind,  and  decid-3  their  iinal  doom  of  happi- 
ness or  misery  forever.  These  are  the  momeutou^j 
the  interesting  truths,  on  which  the  Gospels  princi- 
pally dwell. 

The  Acts  of  the  Apostles  continue  the  history  of 
our  religion  after  our  Lord's  ascension;  the  astonish- 
ing and  rapid  propagation  of  it  by  a  few  illiterate 
R2 


198  Fromfscuous  Fieccs. 

tent-mikcrs  and  fiphernK  n,  through  almost  every  part 
of  tlie  uorld,  "  by  lif^uioristration  of  the  spirit  and  of 
poTver;"  without  the  aid  of  eloquence  or  of  force, 
and  in  oppositli  n  to  all  the  authority,  all  the  power, 
and  all  the  iulluence  of  the  opulent  and  the  great. 

The  Epistles,  that  is,  the  letters  addressed  by  the 
Apostles  and  their  associates  to  diiTerent  churches  and 
to  particular  individuals,  contain  many  admirable 
rules  and  directions  to  the  primitive  converts;  many 
aii'cting  exhortations,  expostulations,  and  reproofs; 
many  explanations  and  illustrations  of  the  doctrines 
delivered  by  our  Lord ;  together  witli  constant  re- 
ferences to  facts,  circumstances,  and  events,  recorded 
in  the  Gospels  and  the  Acts ;  in  which  we  perceive 
such  striking  yet  evidently  such  unpremeditated  and 
yndesigned  coincidences  and  aureements  between  the 
narratives  and  the  epistles,  as  form  one  most  conclu- 
sive argument  for  the  truth,  authenticity,  and  genu- 
ineness of  both. 

The  sacred  volume  concludes  with  the  Revelation 
df  St.  John,  which,  under  the  form  of  visions  and  va- 
rious symbolical  representations,  presents  to  us  a  pro- 
phetic history  of  the  Christian  religion  in  future 
f  imes,  and  the  various  changes,  vicissitudes,  and  revo- 
lutions it  was  to  undergo  in  different  ages  and  coun- 
kies  to  the  end  of  the  world. 

Is  it  possible  now  to  conceive  a  uoliler,  a  more  com- 
prehensive, a  more  useful  scheme  of  instruction  than 
this  ;  in  which  the  uniformity  and  variety,  so  happi- 
ly blended  together,  give  it  an  inexpressible  beauty, 
nnd  the  whole  cmposition  plainly  proving  its  Author 
to  be  divine? 

"  The  Bible  is  not  indeed  (as  a  great  writer  ob- 
serves) a  plan  of  religion  delineated  with  mhmte  accu- 
yacy,  to  instruct  men  as  in  something  altogether  new, 
or  to  excite  a  vain  admiration  and  applause ;  but  it  is 
somewhat  unspeakably  more  great  and  noble,  com- 
prehending (as  we  have  seen)  in  the  grandest  and  most 
magnificent  order,  along  with  every  essential  of  that 
]!ilan,  the  various  dispensations  ei  God  to  mankinA» 


Promiscuous  Fiecc^  199 

from  the  formation  of  this  earth  to  the  consummation 
of  ttU  things.  Other  fjooks  may  aA'ord  us  much  en- 
tertainment ami  much  instruction;  may  gratify  our 
curiosity,  may  delight  our  imag. nation,  may  improve 
our  understandings,  may  calm  our  passions,  niay^x- 
alt  our  sentiments,  may  even  rrajirove  our  hearts. 
But  they  have  not,  they  cannot  have  that  authority 
in  what  they  aifirm,  in  what  they  require,  in  what 
they  promise  and  tJireaten,  that  the  Scriptures  i;ave. 
There  is  a  peculiar  weight  and  energy  in  thcuiy  Mhich 
is  not  to  be  found  in  any  other  writings.  Their  de- 
nunciations are  more  awful,  their  convictions  strong- 
er, their  consolations  more  powerful,  their  counsels 
more  authentic,  their  warnings  more  alarming,  and 
their  expostulutif.ns  more  penetrating.  There  are 
passages  in  them  tliroughout  so  subhme,  so  pathetic, 
full  of  Fuch  energy  and  force  upon  the  heart  and  con- 
science, yet  without  the  least  appearance  of  labour 
and  study  for  that  purpose ;  indeed  the  design  of  the 
whole  is  so  noble,^  so  well  suited  to  the  sad  condition 
of  human  kind;  the  morals  have  in  them  such  puri- 
ty  and  dignity;  the  doctrines,  so  many  of  them 
above  reason,  yet  so  perfectly  reconcileable  with  it ; 
the  expression  is  so  majestic,  yet  familiarized  with 
such  easy  simplicity,  that  the  more  we  read  and  stu- 
dy these  ^^ritings  with  pious  dispositions  and  judi- 
cious attention,  the  more  we  shall  see  and  feel  of  the 
hand  of  God  in  them.*' 

But  that  M  hich  stamps  upon  them  the  highest  va- 
lue, that  which  renders  them,  strictly  speaking,  z«e5- 
timnble^  and  distinguishes  them  from  ail  other  books 
in  the  world,  is  tliis,  that  Ihey,  and  they  only,  "  con- 
tnitt  the  words  of  eternal  life.''''  In  this  respect,  every 
other  book,  even  the  noblest  compositions  of  man, 
must  fail  us;  they  cannot  give  us  that  which  we  most 
want,  and  wliat  is  of  infinitely  more  importance  toj  us 
than  all  other  things  put  together,  ETEiiNAi  lifb. 


200  I'roniiscuous  I-'kces, 


SECTION  IV. 


licjlections  en  the  commencement  of  the  Nineteenth 
*  Century, 

-Mif^hty  years  begun 


From  their  first  orb — in  radiant  circles  run  ! 

DRVDEV. 

Nothing  is  lasting  on  the  world's  wide  stage, 

As  sung,  and  wisely  sung,  the  Grecian  sage  ; 

And  man,  who  through  the  globe  extends  his  sway, 

Reigns  but  the  sovereign  creature  of  a  day  ; 

One  generation  conies,  another  goes, 

Tinie  blends  the  happy  with  the  man  of  woes; 

A  different  face  of  things  each  age  appears, 

And  all  things  alter  in  a  course  of  years. 

COOKE. 

The  moralist  has  recommended  hlated  times  for 
the  purposes  of  meditation.  At  such  periods  the  fa- 
culties are  awakened,  and  the  soul  is  set  in  motion. 
Thus  stimulated,  the  sluggish  current  of  our  thoughts 
becomes  quickened,  flowing  on  with  an  accelerated 
rapidity.  Such  is  precisely  our  situation.  The  com- 
mencement of  a  ce?ituiy,  occurs  not  twice  in  our  life. 
This  is  a  serious  consideration. — ]May  it  be  rendered 
subservient  to  our  moral  improvement ! 

Standing  as  it  were  on  an  eminence,  and  looking 
around  us,  we  find  the  i>ew  revolving  century  replete 
with  important,  thougli  obvious,  topics  of  instruction. 

Tlie  coraniencement  of  a  century  should  suggest  to 
us  the  inestimable  value  of  our  time. 

Time  was  granted  to  man  for  his  improvement. 
By  the  protraction  of  life  opportunities  are  aiibrded 
for  our  progress  in  knowledge,  virtue,  and  piety.  We 
were  not  raised  into  being  that  we  might  be  idle  spec- 
tators of  the  objects  ^vi^h  \\hich  we  are  surrounded. 
The  situation  in  which  we  are  placed  demands  reite- 
rated exertion.     The  sphere  in  which  we  move  catls 


Prounscuovs  Flcces.  201 

fpr  the  piiltiiJg  forlli  a,II  Ibe  aliiiily  with  uhich  we 
'iiay  1)0  ciidow't-d.  Inquiries  therefore  should  he  made 
how  iuiprovements  can  be  hctt  eiiccted,  cither  in  our 
iiidividuaJ,  social,  or  j-uhli^  capacities.  'I'hi?  conduct 
\\  ill  rell'jct  an  honour  on  f  ur  ratlon-ility.  Tliis  train 
of  action  ^viII  elevate  us  in  the  f-cilc  of  being — inii)art 
a  zest  to  our  enjoyment,  and  p'epare  us  for  the  ho 
nours  of  immortality  !  It  is  faid,  tiiat  tlie  elder  Cato 
repented  of  three  thijigf — one  of  wliich  uas  liis  hav- 
ing' spent  a  day  \\  iliiout  improvement. 

We  cannot  hegiti  a  century  v.ithout  heing  irapres*:- 
ed  witii  the  vicissitude  by  which  sublunai-y  aiiairs 
are  characterized. 

Everything  around  us  is  in  a  state  of  const  ant  fluc- 
tuation. Neither  nature  nor  art  continue  long  in  one 
position.  The  heavens  aI)ove  us  are  in  perpetual  nio- 
tion.  The  earth  beneath  us  is  ever  changing  its  ex- 
ternal appearance.  Tlie  atmosphere  around  us  is 
subject  to  incessant  variations.  Individuals,  families, 
and  nations,  are  altering  their  aspect,  and  assuming 
forms  mi>ked  by  strong  traits  of  novelty.  Not  only 
opinions,  but  even  long  established  customs,  at  length 
lose  tlieir  hold  en  the  uiind,  and  are  shut  out  by- 
practices  of  a  directly  opposite  tendency.  Thus  are 
we  whirled  around  in  the  vortex  of  life  by  incidents 
the  mobt  strange,  and  by  events  the  most  contrary  to 
our  expectations.  Change,  in  its  endless  variety  of 
shapes,  presents  itself,  and  we  observe,  v>  ith  surprise^ 
the  effects  produced  by  h,  both  in  ourselves  and  in 
oar  friends  with  whom  we  are  connected : 

Bvit  surp  to  foreign  climes  we  need  notrtmge, 

Nor  search  the  uncieut  records  of  our  race. 
To  learn  the  dire  effects  oi  time  and  chuni!;c, 

Which,  in  ourselves,  alas  !  we  daily  trace  ; 
Yet,  at  the  darlien'd  eye,  the  witliev'd  face, 

Or  hoary  hair,  I  never  wil'  repine  ; 
But  spare,  O  timk  !  whate'er  of  mental  grace. 

Of  candour,  love,  or  sympathy  divine  ; 
Whate'er  oi  fancy's  ray?  or  frieiidship's  Hame  is  min« 

MINSTUEL. 


202  PromJs.^uuus  twtcs. 

We  should  enter  upon  the  new  century  uith  the 
pleasing  idea  that  tiie  progressive  series  of  events 
tends  to  hw.mxn  improvrr,irnt. 

Tlie  light  which  broke  out  at  the  aeraof  the  reform- 
ation, continues  to  ^tnd  forth  its  rays, and  uill  illumi- 
nate (he  most  distant  regions  of  the  globe!  The  hu- 
man faculties,  which  had  slumbered  for  agef,  were 
then  roused  into  action,  and  the  discovery  of  the  art 
of  printing  facilitated  the  spread  of  truth  in  districts 
whither  its  beams  had  not  before  penetrated.  SiKCU 
that  illustrious  period,  science  has  lifted  up  her  head 
— conmierce  has  spread  abroad  her  sail^ — and  religion 
lias  unfolded  prospects  of  futurity  highly  favourabb 
to  human  felicity.  Our  ideas  seem  now  to  How  in 
channels  which  cannot  easily  be  interrupted.  More 
jusi  views  of  the  Supreme  Being  are  entertained,  and 
clearer  notions  indulged  respecting  i\\Q  rights  and 
privileges  of  humanity.  Man  will  henceforward  be- 
come more  sensible  of  his  advantages,  asd  Mill,  it  if  io 
be  hoped,  convey  them  entire  and  unmutilated  to 
their  posterity.  The  benevolent  of  every  class  rejoice 
m  the  prospect.  Feeling  for  his  species,  the  good  man 
will  exult  in  the  recollection,  that  the  night  cf  igno- 
rance and  misery  is  passing  away,  and  that  it  will  be 
assuredly  lost  in  the  full  lilaze  of  perfect  day. 

Finally,  let  us,  upon  the  commencement  of  the  new 
century,  idealize  the  perfections  and  g-ovemment  of  the 
Supreme  Beinjy  under  whose  saperintendance  ever^ 
thing  will  be  conducted  to  a  happy  conclusion. 

A  fatherless  world  J  an  crphr.n  universe  !  are  ideas 
agonizing  to  every  weil-coPi.-titutcd  JLind.  The  pre- 
sent system  bears  unequivccal  marks  of  the  wisdom 
and  goodness  by  whic'i  it  was  originally  constituted. 
The  parts  theniselver,  timl  the  relation  they  bear  to 
each  other,  point  out  the  ends  for  which  they  are  in- 
tended. The  sun,  moon,  and  starf,  perfi)rra  with 
regularity  their  destined  revo'iition.  The  earth  ve- 
getates at  the  assigned  period  of  fertility,  and  pours 
forth  its  stores  for  the  sustenance  and  comfort  of  tliC 

human  race,     Tba  intellectual  and  moral  powers  of 

1 


J'romlscuous  I'icccs.  203 

mail  lead  him  to  the  perception,  and  by  the  force  of 
motives  properly  weif^hed,  impel  hiin  to  the  practice 
of  right  conduct.  The  RiiviiLAXioy  with  which  ^ve 
are  favoured,  is  in  every  respect  honourable  to  the 
divine  government.  'Ihe  reasonableness  of  its  doc- 
trines, the  purity  of  its  precepts,  and  the  subiinuiy 
of  its  prospects,  recommend  it  to  our  seiious  i'  ten- 
tion.  Even  the  futility  of  the  objections  niau  j  to  ils 
origin,  shews  in  a  more  striking  point  ^i  view  its  di- 
vinity— for  the  envenomed  shafis  of  inadelity,  re- 
cently aimed  at  the  heavenly  shield,  have  been  seen 
to  fall  pointless  to  tii:;  ground,  in  such  ciicumttan- 
ces,  and  with  such  views,  man*  is  eiupowcred  to  look 
abroad  at  the  commcncemrnt  of  a  ccntur//,'dnd  to  real- 
ize the  per  fcctiyni;  and  government  of  tiie  sui'KEAiii 
BKiNG,  with  whom  there  is  7io  vuriaulcncsi  nor  the 
shadow  of  turiiing  !  m  neglecting  this  privileg;?,  he 
omits  to  discharge  an  important  duty.  He  si/iks 
liimself  upon  a  level  witii  the  brutes,  and  relinquish- 
es meaos  calculated  to  promote  and  secure  his  per- 
fection. 

From  the  honoural)le  ideas  vvJjich  we  have  lieen 
taught  to  form  of  Deity,  ws;  cannot  for  a  nioment 
suspect  the  equity  with  wlucii  he  presides  over  eve» 
ry  part  of  his  widt;  extended  empire  !  The  architect 
prides  liimself  on  the  proportion  and  regularity  willi 
which  his  buildhigs  have  been  raised.  The  ai  list  con- 
templates the  niceness  and  accuracy  after  \vhich  his 
pieces  of  mechanism  have  been  constructed.  The 
statesman  congratulates  him^eIi  on  the  sagacity  w  1 1 
which  his  plans  have  been  devised  and  accomplislu-d. 
In  a  similar  manner  the  D^ity  lias  regulatcil  ever} 
procedure  of  his  government  with  the  profoundest 
■wisdom,  in  conjunction  with  a  benevolence  which  ex- 
ceeds our  loftiest  coDci:ptions.  Immediately  after  the 
creation,  God  surveyed  the  works  of  his  hands  and 
pronounced  them  to  be — ,:^^ood !  And,  hmuanly 
speaking,  he  must  at  all  tunes  look  down  with  an  eye 
of  distinguished  compliiccncy  on  the  subserviency  of 
his  government  to  genera!  icUcily. 


204  Promiscuous  Pieces. 

IM.vM,  however,  furniphcd  with  scanty  po^-ers  of 
perception,  is  cooped  up  on  fvery  fide,  and  vainly 
istrives  to  disclose! ho  secrets  of  futurity.  "  We  know 
not  what  to-morrow  brings  fortii."  This  is  a  measure 
ordained  in  infinite  wisdom.  Tiie  anticipation  of  our 
joys,  or  of  our  griefs,  is  often  a  burden  too  heavy  to 
be  borne.  Pretensions,  indeed,  are  made,  to  a  knov/- 
iedge  of  our  future  destiny — but  the  impontion  has 
been  detected  and  exposed.  Our  wisest  way  is  to 
throw  the  reins  over  a  vain  curiosity.  Let  us  never 
attempt,  on  any  occasion,  to  lift  up  the  awful  veil 
"■vhich  divides  the  present  moment  from  futurity  ! 
Such  a  procedure  shews  only  our  own  impiety  and 
folly.  Contrntrd  with  that  portion  of  inf(;rmation 
which  is  commensurate  with  our  faculties  and  conge- 
nial with  our  present  situation,  let  us  devote  our  know- 
ledge to  the  purposes  of  faith  and  pi'actice.  A  larg- 
er degree  of  intelligence  cannot,  perhaps,  in  this  life, 
be  the  legitimate  object  of  attainment.  Ilencefor- 
wards,  then,  ht  us  dismiss  our  anxious  thoughts,  ba- 
nish our  corroding  cares,  and  shudder  at  (he  indulg- 
ence of  imjMous  anticipations.  In  fine,  let  us  calniiy 
and  cheerfully  resign  ourselves  to  the  disposal  of  that 
«REAT  BEi.vo  who  canfiot  cvr,  and  who  will  nllh  con- 
summate  abilid/  conduct  the  affairs  of  his  nise  and 
righteous  govcriiment  to  the  happiest  ttrmination : — 

Immortal  king  i   from  all  n-sutation  free  1 

Vv'hose  endless  being  Vic'tr  begcin  to  be; 

Who  ne'cM-  was  nothing- — who  was  ever  iill, 

Vv'hoso  ki-.igdom  did  not  rise,  and  Cijpnot  fil 

On  a  77iij.irtriQus  throne^  Isigh  rais'd  above, 

E'en  the  fiiv  change  which  hc:ivcnly  orders  prove  ! 

"While  their  bright  excclicrcc  pi-ogrcsfiive  grew,    ' 

He  pevfjct  was — ne'er  imperfection  knew  ! 

Ere  v^orids  began,  with  boundless  goodness  blest- 

Ne'er  nt'eding  to  be  l)ctter — always  best  1 

The  penMve  muse,  •vvho  thus  a  monrufui  sigh 

Hath  paid  to  stars  that  fall,  and  flow'rs  that  die  ; 

While  the  short  glories  brief  as  fau'  she  inournBi 

To  HIM,  the    GREAT   EKDURER,  jojful  tUmS,       «| 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  905 

Glad  she  adores,  deprest  by  gloomy  wanes, 

That  undecreasing  light,  wlio  all  ordains  ; 

On  HIM  she  leans,  reliev'd  from  withering  things, 

And  his  immortal  counsel  raptur'd  sings  : 

That  schtme  of  good,  which  all  that  dies  survives, 

Whate'er  decays,  for  ever  fair  that  thrives  : 

"Whose  progress,  adverse  fates  and  prosperous  chance, 

Virtue,  and  vice,  and  good  and  ill  advance, 

Which  draws  new  splendour  from  all  mortal  gloom, 

Which  all  that  fades,  but  feeds  with  riper  bloom  ; 

Each  h  iman  fall  but  props — each  fall  succeeds. 

And  all  that  fancy  deems  obstruction — speeds  : 

In  nature's  beauteous  frame,  as  cold  and  heat, 

And  moist  and  dry,  and  light  and  darkness  meet 

— Harmonious  in  the  mortal  system — ^join 

Pleasure  and  fiain^  and  glory  and  decline  \ 

FAWCETT. 


SECTION  V. 
On  Writing  Letters, 


The  great  utility  and  importance  of  Epistolary 
Writing,  is  so  well  known,  and  so  universally  ac- 
knowledged, that  it  is  needless  to  insist  on  the  ne- 
cessity of  being  acquainted  with  an  art  replete  with 
so  many  advantages.  Those  who  are  accomplished  in 
this  art  are  too  happy  in  their  knowledge  to  need  fur- 
ther information  concerning  its  excellence  ;  and  those 
who  are  unqualiGed  to  convey  their  sentiments  to  a 
friend,  without  the  assistance  of  a  third  person,  feel 
their  deficiency  so  severely,  that  nothing  need  be 
said  to  convince  them,  that  it  is  both  their  interest 
and  their  happiness  to  be  instructed  in  what  is  so  ne- 
cessary and  agreeable. 

Had  letters  been  known  at  the  beginning  of  the 
world,  Epistolary  Writing  would  have  been  as  old  as 
love  and  friendship  ;  for,  as  soon  as  they  began  to 

S 


2CG  Promiscuous  Pieces. 

flourish,  the  verba!  messenj2;er  was  dropped,  and  the 
language  of  the  htart  was  conimittcd  to  characters 
that  fai  hfully  preserved  it,  and  hcre'y  secrecy  was 
inaintaiued,  and  social  intercourse  rendered  more 
free  and  extensive. 

The  Roinaiis  were  perfect  masters  of  this  art,  and 
placed  it  in  the  number  of  liberal  and  polite  accom- 
plisliments  ;  and  we  find  (  icero  mentioning  with 
great  p  easure,  inso-neof  his  letters  to  At iiais,  the 
eles^ant  spe<  imcn  he  had  received  from  his  son  in  this 
way.  It  seems  indeed  to  liave  formed  a  part  in  their 
education;  and  in  the  opinion  of  Mr.  Locke,  it  well 
deserves  to  have  a  share  in  ours. 

The  writing  of  fetters  enters  so  much  into  all  the 
occurrences  of  life,  that  no  gentleman  or  lady  can 
avoid  shewing  themselves  in  compositions  of  this 
kind.  Occasions  will  daily  force  them  to  make 
this  use  of  llieir  pen,  by  which  their  sense,  their 
abilities,  and  their  education  are  exposed  to  a  severer 
examination  than  by  any  oral  discourse. 

Epistolary  Writing,  in  the  comiuun  and  just  ac- 
ceptation of  the  word,  is  confined  to  those  ctjmposi- 
lions  which  serve  to  transact  the  comtuon  business  of 
life,  or  to  promote  its  most  pleasing  inten  ourses.  In 
this  point  of  view,  letter  writing  is  the  most  necessa- 
ry, at  the  same  time  it  is  happily  the  most  easy  of  all 
literary  accomplishments. 

It  was  a  just  observation  of  the  honest  quaker,  that, 
]f  a  man  think  twice  Off  ore  he  .speak,  he'' II  speak  twice 
the  better  for  it.  With  great  propriety  the  above 
may  be  applied  to  epistolary  as  well  as  to  all  sorts  of 
writing. 

In  letters  from  one  relation  to  another,  the  different 
characters  of  the  persons  must  be  first;  considered ; 
Thus  a  father  in  writing  to  a  son  will  use  a  gentle  au- 
thority ;  a  son  to  a  father  will  express  a  filial  d-uty. 
And  again,  in  friendship,  the  heart  will  dilate  itself 
with  an  honest  freedom  ;  it  will  applaud  with  sincer- 
ity, and  censure  with  modest  reluctance. 


FronuscKOiis  Pieces.  207 

In  letters  concernin;^;  trade,  the  snbjert  matter  will 
be  constantly  kept  in  view,  and  the  greatest  perspicu- 
ity and  brevity  observed  by  the  diflVreiit  corresjjon- 
dents  ;  and  in  like  manner,  these  rules  may  be  applied 
to  all  other  subjects,  and  conditions  of  life,  viz.  a  com- 
prehensive idea  of  the  subject,  and  an  unalVectcd 
simplicity,  and  modesty,  in  expression.  Nothinrj 
more  need  be  added,  only  that  a  constant  attention 
to  the  above  for  a  few  months,  will  soon  convince  the 
learner,  that  his  time  has  not  been  spent  in  vain. 

Indeed,  an  assiduous  attention  to  the  study  of  any 
art,  even  the  most  diflicult,  will  enable  the  learner  to 
surmount  every  difficulty  ;  and  writing  letter.',  to  liis 
correspondents  becomes  equally  easy  as  speaking  in 
company  ;  and,  if  he  carefully  avoids  artectation, 
Mill  enable  him  to  write  in  the  language  of  the  present 
times  ;  his  thoughts  will  be  clear,  his  sentiments  judi- 
cious, and  his  language  plain,  easy,  sensible,  elegant 
and  suited  to  the  nature  of  the  subject.  As  letters 
are  the  copies  of  conversation,  just  consider  what  you 
■nould  say  to  your  friend  if  he  was  present,  and  write 
down  the  very  words  you  would  speak,  which  will 
rendtr  your  epistle  unaflected  and  intelligible. 

When  you  sit  down  to  write,  call  off  your  thoughts 
from  every  thing  but  the  subject  you  intend  to  handle; 
consider  it  with  attention,  place  it  in  every  point  of 
view,  and  examine  it  on  every  side  before  you  begin. 
By  this  means  you  will  lay  a  plan  of  it  in  your  mind, 
which  will  rise  like  a  well  contrived  building,  beau- 
tiful, uniform  and  regular;  whereas,  if  you  neglect  to 
form  to  yourself  some  method  of  going  through  the 
whole,  and  leave  it  to  be  conducted  by  giddy  acci- 
dent, your  thoughts  upon  any  subject  can  never  appear 
otherwise  than  as  a  mere  heap  of  confusion.  Consid- 
er, you  are  now  to  form  a  stile,  or,  in  other  words, 
lo  learn  the  way  of  expressing  what  you  think  ;  and 
your  doiug  it  well  or  ill  for  your  whole  life  will  de- 
pend, in  a  great  measure,  upon  the  manner  you  fall  in- 
to at  the  beginning.  It  is  of  great  consequence  there- 
fore to  be  attentive  aad  diligent  at  first  •,  and  an  ex- 


206  Proj)iiscuoii5  Pieces. 

pressive,  and  easy  manner  of  \vritlng,Jt  is  so  usefal, 
so  engaging  a  quality,  that  whatever  pains  it  costs, 
jt  amply  will  repay. 

As  to  the  subjects,  you  are  allowed  in  this  way  the 
utmost  liberty.  Whatever  has  been  done,  or  thought, 
or  seen,  or  heard  ;  your  observations  on  what  you 
know,  3'our  inquiries  about  what  you  do  not  knew, 
the  time,  the  place,  the  weather,  every  thing  around 
stands  ready  for  your  purpose  ;  and  the  more  variety 
you  intermix,  the  better.  Set  discourses  require  a 
dignity  or  formality  of  stile  suitable  to  the  subject ; 
whereas  letter-writing  rejects  all  pomp  of  words,  and 
is  most  agreeable  when  most  familiar.  But,  though 
lofty  phrases  are  here  improper,  the  stile  must  not 
therefore  sink  into  meanness:  and  to  prevent  its  doing 
so,  an  easy  complaisance,  an  open  sincerity,  and  un- 
affected good  nature,  should  appear  in  every  place. 
A  letter  should  Vv^ear  an  honest,  cheerful  countenance, 
like  one  who  truly  esteems,  and  is  glad  to  see  his 
friend ;  and  not  lock  like  a  fop  admiring  his  own  dress, 
and  seemingly  pleased  with  nothing  but  himself. 

Express  your  meaning  as  briefly  as  possible  ;  long 
periods  may  please  the  ear,  but  they  perplex  the  un- 
derstancilDg.  Let  your  letters  abound  with  thoughts 
more  than  words.  A  short  stile,  and  plain,  strikes 
the  mind,  and  fixes  an  impression  ;  a  tedious  one  is 
seldom  clearly  understood,  and  never  long  remem- 
bered. But  there  is  still  something  requisite  beyond 
all  this,  towards  the  writing  a  polite  and  agreeable  let- 
ter, such  as  a  gentleman  ought  to  be  distinguished 
by  ;  and  that  is,  an  air  of  good-breeding  and  human- 
ity, which  ought  constantly  to  appear  in  every  ex- 
pression, and  give  a  beauty  to  the  whole.  By  this,  f 
would  not  be  supposed  to  mean,  overstrained  or  af- 
fected compliments,  or  any  thing  that  way  tending  ; 
but  an  easy  and  obliging  manner  of  address,  a  choice 
of  words  which  bear  the  most  civil  meaning,  and  a 
generous  and  good  natured  complaisance. 


THE  ORATOR. 


PART  II. 


DIFFERENT  KIXDS  OF  PUBLIC 
SPEAKIXG, 


C II A  P.  I. 

Eloquence  of  ropular  Assemblies. 

Thl  ancients  divided  all  orations  into  three  grand' 
classes,  the  Demonstrative,  the  Deliberative,  and 
the  Judicial.  The  scope  of  the  Demonstrative,  was 
to  praise  or  blame  ;  that  of  the  Deliberative,  to  ad- 
vise or  dissuade  ;  that  of  the  Judicial,  to  accuse  or 
defend.  The  chief  subjects  of  Demonstrative  Elo- 
quence, were  Panegyrics,  Invectives,  Gratulatory, 
and  Funeral  Oral  ions.  The  Deliberative  was  em- 
ployed in  matters  of  Public  concern  agitated  in  the 
Senate,  or  before  the  assemblies  of  the  peoi>le.  The 
Judicial,  is  the  same  with  the  eloquence  of  the  Bar, 
employed  in  addressing  Judges,  who  have  powers  to 
absolve  or  condemn.  I  have  in  the  following  selec- 
tions, preferred  that  train  which  Modern  speaking 
points  out,  rather  tiian  the  above  division  laid  down 
by  the  ancient  Rhetoricians.  J\Iodcrn  Eloquence  is  di- 
vided into  three  kinds,  the  Eloquence  of  Popular  As- 
semblies, of  the  Bar  and  of  the  Pulpit ;  each  of  which 
lias  a  distinct  character,  which  particularly  suits  it. 
This  division  though  in  some  respects  diiTerent,  yet 
in  others,  corresponds  with  the  ancient  one.  The  elo- 
quence of  the  Bar  is  jirecisely  the  same  with  what 
tJie  Ancient  Rhetoricians  called  the  Judicial.     The 

S3 


210  Eiorjucncc  of 

Eloquence  of  Popular  Assemblies,  though  mostly 
of  that  kind  which  they  term  the  Deh!)erative,  yet  ad- 
mits also  of  the  Demonstrative,  The  Eloquence 
of  the  Pulpit  is  altogether  of  a  distinct  nature  ;  and 
as  the  ancient  lllietoricians  had  no  such  kind  of  Ora- 
tor}'',  it  cannot  be  reduced  under  any  of  their  divia- 
ious. 


SECTION  I. 

The  Eutogiwn  of  the  perfect  Speaker, 

Imagine  to  yourselves  a  Demostlienes  addressing 
the  most  iliusirioiis  assembly  in  the  world,  upon  a 
point  whereon  the  fate  of  the  most  illustrious  of  na- 
tions depended. — How  awful  such  a  meeting  I  How 
vast  the  subject ! — Is  mn,n  possessed  of  taieul:i  ade- 
quate to  the  great  occasion  ?  Adtqualc—  yes  s'jpe^ 
rior.  By  the  power  of  his  eloquence,  the  augustness 
of  the  assembly  is  lost  in  the  dignity  of  the  saojcct, 
for  a  while  superceded,  by  the  admiration  of  his  tal- 
ents.— With  what  strength  of  argument,  with  what 
powers  of  the  fancy,  with  what  emotions  of  the 
heart  does  he  assault  and  subjugate  the  whole  m?*r., 
and  at  once  captivate  his  reason,  his  imagination,  and 
his  passions  ! — To  effect  this  must  be  the  utmost  ef- 
fort of  the  most  improved  state  of  human  nature  !— 
Not  a  faculty  that  he  possesses,  is  here  unemployed  ; 
not  a  facuhy  that  he  possesses,  but  is  here  exerted  to 
its  highest  pitch.  All  his  internal  powers  are  at  work  ; 
all  his  external,  testify  their  energies.  Within,  the  me- 
mory, the  fancy,  the  judgment,  the  passions,  all  are 
busy  ;  without,  every  muscle  every  nerve  is  exerted  ; 
not  a  feature,  not  a  limb  but  speaks.  The  organs  of  the 


J'opitlar  Assemblies.  21  i 

l)0(ly,  attuned  to  tlic  exertions  of  the  mind,  tliroufrli 
the  kindred  organs  of  the  hearers,  iusta'ifanccusi}', 
and  as  it  were  with  an  electrical  spirit,  vil)rate  tho;  e 
energies  from  soul  to  soul. — Notwithstanding:  the  (ji- 
versity  of  minds  in  such  a  uiuliitudc,  by  the  lightning 
of  eloquence,  they  are  melted  into  one  mass — tho 
whole  asseiuhly,  actuated  in  one  and  the  same  way, 
become,  as  it  were,  b'lt  one  man,  and  have  bat  one 
voice. — The  universal  cry  is — Let  us  march  <igainst 
Philip — let  us  fight  for  our  liberties — let  us  conquer 
— or  die .' 


SECTION  IT. 

JlHlogium  of  Antoinette,  the  laie  Queen  of  France. 

It  is  now  sixteen  or  seventeen  years  since  I  saw 
the  queen  of  France,  then  thedauphincss,  at  Versailles; 
and  surely  never  lighted  on  this  orb,  whicli  she  hard- 
ly sfemeci  to  touch,  a  more  (ielightful  vi.sion.  I  saw 
iiur  just  above  the  horizon,  decorating  and  cheering 
tlie  elevated  sphere  she  had  just  began  to  move  in, — 
^iitlering  like  the  morning  star  ;  full  of  life,  and 
splenJor,  and  joy. 

Oh  !  what  a  revolution  ! — and  what  a  heart  must 
I  have,  to  contemplate,  without  emotion,  that  eleva- 
tion and  that  fall  ! 

Litile  did  I  dream  that,  v.  'len  she  added  titles  of 
veneration  to  these  of  enthusiastic,  distant,  respect- 
ful love,  that  she  should  ever  be  obliged  to  carry  the 
sharp  antidote  against  digrace  concealed  in  that  bo- 
som ; — little  did  I  dream  that  I  should  have  lived  to 
see  such  disasters  fallen  upon  her  in  a  nation  of  gal- 
lant men, — in  a  nation  of  men  of  honour  and  of  cava- 
liers. I  thought  ten  thousand  swords  must  have 
leaped  from  their  scabbards  to  avenge  even  a  look 
that  threatened  her  with  iusult— But  the  age  of  chi- 


212  Eloquence  of 

valry  is  gone. — That  of  sophisters,  economists,  and 
calculalors,  has  succeeded  ;  and  the  glury  of  Eu- 
rope is  estin^'uished  for  ever.  Never,  never  more, 
shall  we  behold  that  generous  loyalty  to  rank  and  sex, 
— that  proud  submission, — that  dignified  obedience, 
— that  subordination  of  the  heart,  which  kept  alive, 
even  in  servitude  itself,  the  spirit  of  an  exalted  free- 
dom. The  unbought  grace  of  life,  the  cheap  defence 
of  nations,  the  nurse  of  manly  sentiment  and  heroic 
enterprise,  is  gone  !  It  is  gone, — that  sensibility  of 
principle, — that  chastity  of  honour,  which  felt  a  stain 
like  a  wound, — which  inspired  coura2;e  whilst  it  mi- 
tigated ferocity,  which  eimoliled  whatever  it  touched  ; 
and  under  which-  vice  itself  lost  half  its  evil  by  losing, 
2.II  its  grossness. 


SECTION  III. 

Panegyric  on  the  Rfiush  Constliutlon. 

By  a  constitutional  p(dicy  working  after  the  pat- 
tern of  nature,  we  receive,  we  hold,  we  transmit  our 
government,  and  our  privileges,  in  the  same  manner 
in  which  ne enj  »y  and  traunnit  our  property  and  liveSi 
The  institutions  of  policy,  the  goods  of  fortune,  the 
gifts  of  jH'ovidence,  are  hauded  down  to  us  and  from 
ns,  in  tlie  same  course  and  order.  Our  political  sys- 
tem is  placed  in  a  just  correspondence  and  symmetry 
with  the  order  of  the  world,  and  with  the  mode  of 
existence  decreed  to  a  perruaneut  body  composed  of 
trairsitory  parts  •, — -wherein,  by  the  disposition  of 
stupendous  wisdom,  moulding  together  the  great 
mysterious  incorporation  of  the  human  race,  the 
Avhole,  at  one  time,  is  never  old,  or  middle-aged,  or 
young  ;  but,  in  a  condition  of  unchangeable  constan* 
cy,  moves  on  through  the  varied  tenor  of  perpetual 
decay,  fu.!l,  renovation,  and  progri'ssion.     Thus,  b^ 


Popular  Assemblies.  213 

preserving  the  method  of  nature  in  the  conduct  of  the 
state,  in  what  we  improve  we  are  never  wholly  new  ; 
in  what  we  retain  we  are  never  wholly  obsolete — By 
adhering  in  this  manner  and  on  these  principles  to  our 
forefathers,  we  are  guided,  not  by  the  superstition  of 
antiquaries,  but  by  the  spirit  of  philosophic  analogy. 
In  this  choice  of  inheritance  we  have  given  to  our 
frame  of  polity  the  image  of  a  relation  in  blood  ;— . 
binding  up  the  constitution  of  our  country  with  our 
dearest  domestic  ties  -, — adopting  our  fundamental 
laws  into  the  bosom  of  our  family  aflections  ;  keep- 
ing inseparable,  and  cherishing  with  the  warmth  of 
all  their  combined  and  mutually  reflected  charities, 
our  state,  our  healths,  our  sepulchres,  and  our 
jiltars. 


SECTION  IV. 

Mr.  Sheridan's  Invective  against  Mr.  Hastings. 

H.\D  a  stranger,  at  this  time,  gone  into  the  pro- 
vince of  Oude,  ignorant  of  what  had  happened  since 
the  death  of  Sujah  Dowla,  that  man,  who,  with  a 
savage  heart,  had  still  great  lines  of  character,  and 
who,  with  all  his  ferocity  in  war,  had  still,  w  ith  a 
cultivating  hand,  preserved  to  his  country  the  riches 
which  it  derived  from  benignant  skies  and  a  prolific 
soil — if  this  stranger,  ignorant  of  all  that  had  happen- 
ed in  the  short  interval,  and  observing  the  wide  and 
general  devastation,  and  all  the  horrors  of  the  scene 
— of  plains  unclothed  and  brown — pi  vegetables 
burnt  up  and  extinguished — of  villages  depopulated 
and  in  ruin — of  temples  unroofed  and  perishing — of 
reservoirs  broken  down  and  dry, — he  would  naturally 
enquire  what  war  has  thus  laid  waste  the  fertile  fields 
of  this  once  beautiful  and  opulent  country — what  ci- 
vil dissentions  have  happened,  thus  to  tear  asunder 


2ii  Eloquence  of 

and  separate  tlie  Iiappy  societies  that  on>?e  possessed 
those  vlHa.e^es — what  disputed  succession — what  reli- 
gious rage  lias,  wirh  unholy  violence,  demolished 
those  temples,  and  distorted  fervent,  but  unohtru- 
ding  pieiy,  in  the  exercise  of  its  duties  ? — What 
merciless  enemy  has  thiis  spread  the  horrors  of  fire 
and  sword — what  severe  visitation  of  providence  has 
dried  up  tlie  fountain,  and  taken  from  tiie  face  of  the 
earth  every  vestisre  of  verdure  ? — Or  rather,  what 
monsters  have  stalked  over  the  country,  tainting  and 
poisoning,  with  pestiferous  I^reath,  what  the  voracious 
appetite  could  not  devour  ?  To  such  questions,  what 
must  be  the  answer  ?  No  wars  have  ravislicd  these 
lands  and  depopulated  these  villages — nocivil  discords 
have  been  felt — no  disputed  succession — no  religious 
rage — no  merciless  enemy — no  alfliction  of  provi- 
dence, which,  while  it  scourged  for  the  moment,  cut 
ofl"  t!ie  sourcej  of  resuscitation — no  voracious  and 
poisoning  monsters — no,  all  this  has  been  accomplish- 
ed by  the  friendship,  gensrositij  and  kindness  of  the 
English  nation. 

They  have  embraced  us  with  their  protecting  arras, 
and,  lo !  t'lose  are  the  fruits  of  their  alliance. — 
What,  then,  sliall  we  be  tohl,  that  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, the  exasperated  feelings  of  a  whole  peo- 
ple, tiius  goaded  and  spurred  on  to  clamour  and  re- 
sistance, were  excited  l)y  the  poor  and  feeble  iniluence 
of  the  Becrums  !  When  we  hear  the  description  of 
the  paroxysm,  fever  and  delirium,  into  whirli  despair 
had  thrown  the  natives,  when  on  the  iianks  of  the  pol- 
luted Ganges,  panting  for  death,  tliey  tore  more  wide- 
ly open  the  lips  of  their  gaping  wounds,  to  accelerate 
their  dissolution,  and  while  their  blood  was  issuing, 
presented  their  ghastly  eyes  to  heaven,  breathing 
their  last  and  fervent  prayer  that  the  dry  earth  might 
not  be  sufiVred  to  drink  their  blood,  but  that  it  might 
rise  up  to  the  throne  of  God,  and  rouse  the  eternal 
providence  to  avenge  the  wron.^s  of  their  countr3^ 

Will  it  be  said  tiiat  this  was  brouQ:ht  about  by  the 
incantations    of  these  Becrums   in   their  secluded  Zg- 


Popular   Assemblies.  21  •'i 

nana?  or  tliat  they  could  inspire  this  enthusiasm  and 
this  despair  inu)  the  breasts  of  a  people  who  fth  no 
i;ritvani  e,  and  had  sullered  no  tt^rture  ?  What  motive 
then,  could  have  such  inlhience  in  their  besoms  ? 
VVliat  nu)tive!  That  which  nature,  the  common  pa- 
rent, plants  in  the  bosom  of  n;an,  and  which.  thouy;li 
it  may  I)e  less  active  in  ihehulian  t!ian  in  the  E!it;lish- 
luan,  is  still  c»;ng(nial  with  and  makes  part  of  his 
beinj; — that  ftt'lin>;  which  tells  him,  that  man  was 
never  nuidL;  to  be  the  property  of  man  ;  but  that 
when  ihrough  pride  and  ins;  lence  of  power,  one  hu- 
man (.reature  dares  to  l^ra.iii.se  over  anL>ther,  it  is  a 
power  usurped,  and  rtsistaiice  is  a  <luty — that  fcelipg 
vvhitdi  tells  him  tluit  all  power  is  delet^attd  for  the 
good,  nut  for  the  injmy  of  the  peoi)'.e,  and  that  when 
it  is  converttd  from  the  original  purpose,  the  com- 
pact is  broken,  and  the  right  is  to  be  resumed — that 
principle  which  tells  him  that  resisfonce  to  power 
usurped  is  not  merely  a  duty  which  he  owes  to  him- 
self and  to  his  nei.c:h!)oar,  but  a  duty  which  he  owes 
to  his  God,  in  asserting  and  maintaining  the  rank 
which  he  gave  him  in  the  <  reation  !  to  that  common 
God,  who,  where  he  gives  the  form  of  man,  whatever 
may  be  the  complexion,  gives  also  the  feelings  and 
the  ri,i{/its  of  uw}: — t/uU  principle,  which  neitlier 
ilie  r'i<!cmss  of  ignorance  can  stifle,  nor  the  enerva- 
tion of  refinement  extinguish  ' — t/iat  principle  w  h'ch 
makes  it  base  for  man  to  siiJJ'er  w  hen  he  ought  to  aet^ 
which,  tending  to  preserve  to  the  species  the  critriiial 
designations  of  providence,  spurns  at  the  arroeant 
distinctions  of  man,  and  vindicates  the  independent 
qualities  of  iiis  race. 


Sl6  Eloquence  of 


SECTION    V. 

Mr.  Burke's  Panegyric  on  the  Eloquence  of  Mr.  Sher- 
idan. 

Mr.  Sheridan  has  this  day  surprised  the  thousands 
who  !uing  with  rapture  on  his  accents,  by  such  an 
array  of  talents,  such  an  exhi'iition  of  capacity,  such 
a  display  of  powers,  as  are  unparalleled  in  the  an- 
nals of  oratory  ; — a  disphiy  that  reflected  the  highest 
honour  on  himself — histre  upon  letters — renown  up- 
on parliament — glory  upon  the  county.  Of  ail  species 
of  rhetoric,  of  every  kind  of  eloquence  that  has  been 
witnessed  or  recorded,  either  in  ancient  or  rapflern 
limes  ;  whatever  the  acuteness  of  the  bar,  the  digni- 
ty of  the  senate,  the  solidity  of  the  judgment-seat,  and 
the  sacred  morality  of  the  pulpits  have  hitherto  fur- 
nished ;  nothing  has  equalled  what  we  have  this 
day  heard  in  Westrainster-hall.  No  holy  seer  of  re- 
legion,  no  statesman,  no  orator,  no  man  of  any  litera- 
ry description  whatever,  has  come  up,  in  the  one  in- 
stance, t©  the  pure  sentiments  of  morality,  or  in  the 
other,  to  that  variety  of  knowledge,  force  of  imagina- 
tion, propriety  and  vivacity  of  illusion,  beauty  and 
elegance  of  diction,  strength  and  copiousness  of  style, 
j)at]ios  and  sublimity  of  conception,  to  which  we,  this 
day,  listened  with  ardour  and  admiration.  From  poet- 
ry up  to  eloquence,  there  is  not  aspecies  of  composition 
of  which  a  complete  and  perfect  specimen  might  noti 
from  that  single  speech,  be  culled  and  collected. 


SECTION  VI. 

Junius* s  Eulogium  on  Lord  Chatham. 

I  DID  not  intend  to  make  a  public  declaration  of 
the  respect  I  bear  lord  Chatham.    I  well  knew  what 


Popular  Assemblies,  217 

tinvvovlliy  conclusions  would  be  drawn  from  it.  But 
I  am  called  upon  Id  deliver  niv  opinion  ;  and  surely 
it  is  not  intheliltle  censure  of  Mr.  Home  to  deter  me 
from  doing  signal  justice  to  a  man,  who,  I  confess, 
has  grown  upon  my  esteem.  As  for  the  common, 
sordid  views  of  avarice,  or  any  purpose  of  vulgar  am- 
bition, I  question  whether  the  applause  of  Junius 
would  be  of  service  to  lord  Chatham.  JMy  voice  will 
hardly  recommend  him  to  an  increase  of  his  pension, 
or  to  a  seat  in  the  cabinet.  But  if  his  ambition  be 
upon  a  level  with  his  tiDtlerstanding ;  if  he  judges  of 
what  is  truely  honourable  for  himself,  with  the  same 
superior  genius  which  animates  and  directs  him  to  elo- 
q.ierce  in  debate,  to  wisdom  in  decision,  even  the  pen 
of  Junius  shall  contribute  to  reward  him.  Record- 
ed honours  shall  gather  round  his  monument,  and 
thicken  over  him.  It  is  a  solid  fabric,  and  will  sup- 
port the  laurels  that  adorn  it.  \  am  not  conversant  in 
the  language  of  panegyric.  These  praises  are  extort- 
ed from  me  \  but  they  will  wear  well,  for  they  have 
been  dearly  earned. 


SFXTION  VII. 

Cicero  and  Demosthenes  compared. 

There  two  great  princes  of  eloquence  Iiave  been 
often  compared  together;  but  the  judgment  hesitates 
to  which  to  give  the  preference.  The  archbishop  of 
Cambray,  however,  seems  to  have  stated  their  mer- 
its with  great  justice  and  perspecuity,  in  his  reflec- 
tions on  rhetoric  and  poetry.  The  passage,  transla- 
ted is  as  follows. 

"  I  do  not  hesitate  to  declare,  that  I  think  Demost- 
henes superior  to  Cicreo.  I  am  persuaded  that  no 
one  can  admire  Cicero  more  than  i  do-  He  adorns 
whatever  lie  attempts.  He  does  honour  to  language. 
He  dispones  of  words  in  a  manner  pecnjiar  ta  him- 
T 


2lS  Lloqiicncc  of 

sjif.  His  style  lias  great  variety  of  cliaractcr.  When- 
ever he  j)Ieascs,  he  is  even  concise  and  vehement ;  fur 
instance,  against  Cataliue,  against  Verres,  against 
Antony.  But  ornament  is  too  visible  in  his  writings. 
His  art  is  wonderful,  but  it  is  perceived  When  the 
orator  is  providini;  for  the  safety  of  the  republic,  he 
forgets  not  himself,  nor  permits  others  ti)  forget  him. 
Demosthenes  seems  to  escape  from  himself,  and  to 
see  nothing  but  his  country.  He  seeks  not  elegance 
of  expression  ;  unsought  for  he  possesses  it.  He  is 
superior  (o  admiration.  He  makes  use  of  language 
as  a  modest  man  does  of  dress,  only  to  cover  iiim. 
He  thunders,  he  lightens.  He  is  a  torent  which  car- 
ries every  thing  liefore  it.  We  cannot  criticise,  be-' 
cause  we  are  not  ourselves.  His  subject  enchains  our 
attention,  and  makes  us  forget  his  language.  VVe 
los*e  him  from  our  sight:  Philip  alone  occupies  our 
minds.  I  am  delighted  with  both  these  orators  ;  but 
I  confess  that  I  am  less  afliecied  by  the  infinite  art  and 
roacrnificent  eh  quenre  of  Cicero,  than  by  the  rapid 
simplicity  of  Demosthenes." 


SECTION  viir. 

The  Portraits  of  Mahomet  and  Jesus  contrasted 

Go  to  your  natural  religion  : — place  before  her  Ma- 
liomet  and  his  disciples,  arrayed  in  armour  and  in 
blood,  riding  in  triumph  over  the  spoils  of  thousands 
and  tens  of  thousands,  who  fell  by  his  sword  Shew 
her  the  cities  which  he  set  in  flames,  the  countries 
which  he  ravislied  and  destroyed,  and  the  miserable 
distress  of  ail  the  inhabitants  of  the  earth.  When 
she  has  viewed  him  in  this  scene,  carry  her  into  his 
retirements  ;  sliew  her  the  prophet's  <  hamber,  liis  con- 
cubines and  wives  ;  let  her  see  his  adultery,  and 
^ear  him  ailedge  revelation  and  his  divine  commission 
to  justify  liis  lust  and  oppression. 


Popular  Assemblies,  219 

When  she  Is  tired  with  tliis  scene,  then  shew  lier 
the  Ijlessed  Jesus,  humble  and  meek,  doing  good  to 
all  the  souls  of  men,  patiently  instructing  both  the 
ignorant  and  jjcr verse.  Let  her  see  him  in  his  most 
retired  privaces  ;  let  her  follow  him  to  the  mount, 
and  hear  his  devotions  and  supplications  to  his  God. 
Carrv  her  to  his  table,  to  view  his  mean  fare,  and  hear 
Jiis  heavenly  discourse.  Let  her  see  him  injured,  but 
not  provoked.  Let  lier  attend  him  to  the  tribunal, 
and  consider  the  patience  with  which  he  endured  the 
scolls  and  reproaches  of  liis  enemies.  Lead  her  to 
his  cross,  and  let  her  view  him  in  the  agonies  of 
death,  and  hear  his  last  prayer  for  his  persecutors  ; 
"  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they  know  not  what  they 
do." — When  natural  religion  has  viewed  both,  ask, 
Which  is  the prophd  of  God? 


SECTION  IX. 

Mr.  Fox's  Eulogium  on  the  Duke  of  Bedford. 

I  AM  well  aware  that  this  is  not  exactly  the  place 
nor  the  occasion  for  entering  at  large  into  the  charac- 
ter of  the  illustrious  personage,  whose  decease  has 
induced  me  to  come  hither  to  perform  a  painful  duty. 
As  the  memory  of  no  man  was  ever  more  generally 
revered,  so  the  loss  of  no  man  was  ever  more  gener- 
ally felt.  In  a  case,  therefore,  of  so  much  impor- 
tance, I  hope  I  shall  not  be  blamed,  if,  in  feeling  how 
much  the  country  has  sufi'ered  by  this  event,  I  deviate 
a  little  from  the  usual  practice  of  the  house.  The 
noble  person  to  whom  the  house  will  perceive  thcsu 
observations  arc  applied,  was  distinguished  by  some- 
thing so  great,  something  so'  benign,  something  so 
marked  in  his  character,  that  though  possessing  most 
opulent  revenues,  and  though  placed  as  high  in  rank 


220  Elojuence  o/ 

anrl  wealth  as  hope  could  make  bim,  yet  he  secraetl 
to  be  raised  to  that  exalted  station,  only  that  his  ex- 
ample might  have  the  greater  value.  Having  there- 
fore, so  much  of  public  calamity  to  deplore,  the 
jliouse  Kiay  be  assured  that  I  shall  not  at  present,  in- 
dulge in  the  expression  of  any  of  those  feelings  of 
private  friendship  and  gratitude,  which  on  the  other 
occasion,  might  be  proper.  The  loss  is  the  more  af- 
flicting, tlie  more  to  be  regretted,  as  it  happened  at  a 
period  when  the  services  of  this  noble  personage  were 
likely  to  be  most  benehcial  to  society ;  when  he 
was  still  young  enough  to  give  the  hope  of  further  ser- 
vices ;  still  active  enough  for  all  the  duties  of  public 
life  ;  and  while  he  still  possessed  that  youthful  vigour 
and  energy  which  would  long  have  enabled  him  to 
support  those  unwearied  exertions,  which  he  display- 
ed in  every  thing  that  tended  to  promote  the  interests 
of  his  country  ;  exertions  which  afforded  a  sufficient 
pledge,  that  had  he  lived,  the  remainder  of  his  days 
would  have  been  devoted  to  acts  of  public  benefit. 
He  did  not  live  for  X\\t  pleasure,  but  for  the  utility 
of  life  :  or  rather  he  lived  for  the  highest  enjoyment 
which  existence  can  afford, — that  of  doing  good  to  his 
fellow  creatures. 

There  are  many  other  amiable  traits  in  his  charac- 
ter which  I  shall  not  attempt  to  describe  here.  I  may 
be  permitted  to  observe,  however,  that  those  who 
feel  that  the  greatest  benefit  which  can  be  done  to  this 
or  any  other  country,  is  to  render  it  more  productive, 
3uustbe  sensible  that  the  nation  is  more  indebted  to  him 
than  to  any  other  person  for  the  efibrts  which  he  made 
to  improve  its  agriculture.  What  was  his  motive  for 
attaching  himself  to  this  pursuit?  Because  he  was 
convinced,  that  in  the  present  times,  that  was  the  best 
direction  he  could  give  to  his  talents,  and  to  his  means 
in  promoting  the  real  interests  of  his  country  ;  for  his 
humility  was  such,  that  he  conceived  no  pursuit  too 
low  for  him  to  engage  in,  if  he  foresaw  that  it  \\ould 
tend  to  public  utility.  1  know,  that  if  the  noble  per- 
sonage of  whom  I  have  spoken  could  look  back  to  what 


Fopidar  Assemblies.  2^1 

passcil  ill  the  vvorltf,  nothinc:  oould  aflford  him  such 
incHaltlc  pleasure,  as  the  refleclioii  that  his  memory 
sl)ou!(l  he,  as  his  life,  heneficial  to  raankiiul.  I  shall 
conclude  with  a  passac^e  from  a  very  young  orator, 
nhicli  dp,)edrs  particularly  applicable  to  what  1  have 
said.  ''Crime  is  only  a  curse  for  the  time,  even 
whrre  successful ,  hut  virtue  may  be  useful  to  the  re- 
molest  posterity,  and  is  even  almost  as  advantageour. 
to  future  generations  as  to  its  original  possessor/' 


SECTION  X. 

The  Character  of  a  lowly  Hero  illustrated. 

The  lowest  mechanic  who  employs  his  best  affee- 
tions— his  love  and  gratitude,  on  God,  the  best  of  be- 
ings ;  who  retains  a  pariicuiar  regard  and  esteem  for 
the  virtuous  f«w,  compassion  for  the  distressed,  and 
a  firm  expansive  good  will  to  all ;  who  instead  of  tri- 
umphing over  his  enemies,  strives  to  subdue  the 
greatest  enemy  of  all,  his  unruly  passions  ;  who  pro- 
motes a  good  uuderstan<ii ng  between  neighbours,  ap- 
peases disputes,  and  a'ljusfs  differences-,  exercises 
candour  to  injured  character,  and  charity  to  distressed 
worth  ;  who  whilst  he  cherishes  his  friends,  forgives, 
and  even  serves  in  any  pressing  exigency,  his  ene- 
mies ;  whoabJiors  vice,  but  pities  tlie  vicious  ; — such  a 
man,  however  lov/  his  station,  hasjtister  pretensions 
lo  the  character  of  heroism, — (that  lierois  a  which 
ir.ipJies  nobleness  and  elevation  of  soul  bursting  forth 
iuto  correspondent  acticins,)  than  he  who  conquers  ar- 
iiiies,  or  makes  the  most  glaring  figure  in  the  eyes  o£ 
an  injiidicious  wor?  !.  He  is  like  oae  of  those  f^xed 
stars  which,  through  the  remoteness  of  its  situation, 
may  he  thought  cxtre  nely  little,  inconsiderable,  and 
obsoure,  by  unskilful  beliolders,  but  yet  is  as  truly 
great  an  1  gicrious  in  itself,  as  those  heavenlv  lights 

T2 


•^^2  Eloquence  of 

vhich,  by  ])cing  placed  more  obviously  to  our  view, 
apijcar  to  shine  with  more  cUstinsuished  lustre. 


SECTION  XI. 


Mr.  IValpolc  against  Mr.  Pitt  {the  late  Lord  Chatham) 
reflecting  on  his  youth  and  theatrical  manner. 

Sir, 

I  WAS  uuv.iliing  to  interrupt  the  course  of  this 
debate  while  it  was  carried  on,  with  calmness  and 
decency,  by  racu  who  do  not  suffer  the  ardour  of  op- 
position to  cloud  their  reason,  or  transport  them  to 
such  expressions  as  the  dignity  of  tliis  assembly  does 
not  admit.  I  have  hitherto  deferred  to  answer  the 
gentleman,  who  declaimed  against  the  bill,  with  such 
fluency  of  rhetoric,  and  such  vehemence  of  gesture, — 
who  charged  the  advocates  for  the  expedients  now 
proposed,  witli  having  no  regard  to  any  interest  but 
their  own,  and  with  making  laws  only  to  consume  pa- 
per, and  threatened  them  with  the  defection  of  their 
adherents,  and  the  loss  cf  their  influence,  upon  this  , 
new  discovery  of  their  folly,  and  their  ignorance. 
iSor,  sir,  do  I  now  answer  him  for  any  other  purpose 
than  to  remind  him  how  little  the  clamours  of  rage 
and  petulancy  of  invectives,  contribute' to  the  purposes 
for  which  tliis  assembly  is  called  together  ; — how  lit- 
tle the  discovery  of  truth  is  promoted,  and  the  security 
of  the  nation  established  by  pompous  diction,  and 
theatrical  emotions.  Formidable  sounds  and  furious 
«leclamations,  confident  assertions  and  lofty  periods, 
may  affect  the  young  and  unexperienced  ;  and  perhaps 
the  gentleman  may  have  contracied  his  habits  of  ora- 
tory, by  conversing  more  with  those  of  his  own  age, 
than  v.'ith  such  as  have  had  more  opportunities  of  ac- 
quiring knowledge,  and  more  successful  methods  of 
commuDicating  their  sentiments.    If  the  heat  of  his 


Popular  Asseniblies.  22S 

temper,  sir,  would  suffer  him  to  attend  to  those  whose 
age,  and  long  acquaintance  with  business,  give  them 
an  indisputable  right  to  deftrence  and  superiority,  he 
would  iearn,  in  time,  to  reason  rather  than  declaim, 
and  to  prefer  justness  of  arsfument,  and  an  accurate 
knovvledi::e  of  facts,  to  soundinq  epithets,  and  splendid 
superlatives,  which  may  disturb  the  imagination  for 
a  moment,  but  leave  no  lastinij  impression  on  the  mind. 
He  will  learn,  sir,  that  to  accuse  and  prove  are  very 
diflerent,  and  that  reproaches  unsupported  by  evidence 
affect  only  the  character  of  him  that  utters  them.  Ex- 
cursions of  fancy,  and  flights  of  oratory,  are  indeed, 
pardonable  in  young  men,  but  in  no  other  ;  and  it 
woukl  surely  contribute  more  even  to  the  purpose  for 
which  some  gentlemen  appear  to  speak,  (tiiat  of  de- 
preciating the  conductoftheadininistratiou,)  to  prove 
the  inconveniences  and  injustice  of  this  bill  than 
barely  to  assert  them,  with  whatever  maguiiiccnce 
of  language,  or  appearance  of  zoal,  honesty  or  com- 
passion. ■"<  ♦: 


SECTION  XII. 

3Ir.  Pitt's  reply. 


Sir, 

The  attroclous  crime  of  l;eingayoun^man,  whicli 
the  honourable  gentleman  lias,  with  such  spirit  and 
decency  charged  upon  me,  I  shall  neither  attempt  to 
palliate  nor  deny, — but  content  myself  with  wishing 
that  I  may  be  one  of  those  whose  follies  may  cease 
with  their  youth,  and  not  of  that  number  who  are  ig- 
norant in  spite  of  experience.  Whether  youth  can 
be  imputed  to  any  man  as  a  reproach  I  will  not,  sir, 
assume  the  province  of  determining; — ')ut  surely  age 
may  become  justly  contemptible,  if  the  opportunities 
which  it  brings  have  past  away  without  improvement, 
and  vices  appear  to  prevail,  whea  the  passions  have 


22i  KtoyM-nce  of 

subsided.  The  wretch  \v!io,  after  hav'no;  sep^  tlit 
r/>ust-qiieii' es  of  a  ihousan!  errors,  r*  niniues  stiH  to 
h'tinder,  and  whose  at,'e  has  only  a<kj«d  dHh  insin  y  lo 
stupidity,  is  surely  tlie  ohject  o-f  ei'her  a'lhorr^mee 
or  coiJle.npt,  and  clestrves  not  that  his  c,Tey  iiMus 
should  secure  hin  from  insult  Mu'  h  m>re.  sir,  is 
he  to  be  ahiiorrcd,  wiio  as  he  Las  advanie'l  iu  'i::?, 
bas  receded  from  virtue,  an  I  beco  ues  more  niokul 
with  less  teuiptation  •, —  uho  prostiiutes  himseif  for 
money  whicli  he  cannot  enjoy,  and  spends  ti>e  remains 
of  his  life  iu  the  ruin  of  hisoouniry.  But  youth,  sir, 
is  act  my  only  crime  ;  I  have  beeii  aa-us'  d  of  artiui^ 
a  theatrical  part  A  theatrical  part  may  eiiher  imply 
some  peculiarities  of  gesture,  or  a  dissimulai  ion  of 
my  real  sentiments,  and  an  adoption  of  the  opiidoriS 
and  language  of  another  man. 

\\\  tixe  £rst  sense,  sir,  the  charge  is  too  trifling  to  be 
confute*!,  anri  deserves  only  to  be  mentioned,  to  he 
despised.  [  am  at  liherly,  like  every  otlier  man,  to 
use  my  o'.va  language  ;  and  though,  perhap^s,  1  raay 
have  some  am!>ition  to  please  this  gentleman,  I  shall 
not  lay  myself  under  any  restraint,  nor  very  solici- 
louily  copy  his  diction,  or  his  micD-,  however  matur- 
ed by  age,  or  modelled  by  experience.  If  any  man 
shall,  by  charging  tue  with  tLeratrical  behaviour,  implv^ 
ihat  I  utter  any  sentiments  but  my  own,  I  shall  treat 
him  as  a  calumniator,  and  a  villian  ; — nor  shall  any 
protection  shelter  him  from  the  treatment  hedtserverr. 
1  shs,ll,  ons';'  h  an  o.casiun,  without  scruple,  Ira-'uple 
upon  a!i  thor.e  fornis  vrith  which  v«^ealtii  and  dignity 
intfench  themselves, — nor  shall  any  thing  l)utage  re- 
strain my  resentment ; — age,  which  always  brings  one 
privilege,  that  of  •>eiag  insolent  an;l  supsrciUous  with- 
out puiiishmeiit.  But  with  regard,  sir,  to  those  whom 
1  have  oix'cnJed,  f  am  of  opinion,  that  if  I  had  acted 
a  borrowed  part,  1  should  h^ve  avoided  their  censure  : 
the  heatthdt  offended  them  is  the  ardour  of  coaviciion, 
and  that  zeal  for  the  service  of  ray  country,  which 
neither  hope  uor  fear  shall  influence  me  to  suppress. 
1  will  cot  sit  uacoQcernelv.hilemy  liberty  is  invaded} 


Popular  Assemblies,  225 

nor  look  in  silence  upon  public  roMx-ry.  f  will  ex- 
ert my  endeavours,  at  whatever  hazard,  to  repel  the 
aga;ressor,  and  dra£^  the  thief  to  justice, — whoever 
may  protect  thera  in  their  villainy, — and, — whoever 
may  partake  of  their  plunder. 


SECTION  XIII. 

Eulogy  on  Washington. 


It  is  natural  that  the  gratitude  of  mankind  should 
he  drawn  to  their  benefactors.  A  number  of  these 
Iiave  successively  arisen  who  were  no  lesss  distin- 
guished for  the  elevation  of  their  virtues,  than  the 
lustre  of  their  talents.  Of  those,  however,  who  were 
))orn,  and  who  acted  ihrous^h  life,  as  if  they  were 
born,  not  for  themselves  but  for  their  country  and  the 
whole  human  race,  how  few,  alas!  are  recorded  in 
the  long  annals  of  ages,  and  how  wide  the  intervals 
of  time  and  space  that  divide  them.  In  all  this  dreary 
length  of  way,  they  appear  like  five  or  ^ix  light  houses 
on  as  many  thousand  miles  of  coast :  they  gleam  upon 
the  surrounding  darkness,  with  an  inextinguishable 
splendour,  like  stars  seen  through  a  mist ;  but  they 
are  seen  like  stars,  to  cheer,  to  guide,  and  to  save. 
Washington  is  now  added  to  that  small  number. 
Already  he  attracts  curiosity,  like  a  newly  discovered 
star,  whose  benignant  light  will  travel  on  to  the 
world's  and  tijne's  farthest  hounds.  Already  his 
name  is  hung  up  by  history  as  conspicuously,  as  if  it 
sparkled  in  one  of  the  constellations  of  the  sky. 

The  best  evidence  of  reputation  is  a  man's  whole 
life.  We  have  now,  alas  !  all  Washington's  before 
us.  There  has  scarcely  appeared  a  really  great  man, 
whose  character  has  been  more  admired  in  his  life 
time,  or  less  correctly  understood  by  his  admirers. 
When  it  is  comprehended,  it  is  no  easy  task  to  delin- 
eate its  CTaellences  in  such  a  manner,  as  to  give  to 


226  Eloquence  cf 

the  portrait  both  interest  and  resemblance  ;  for  it  re- 
quires thought  an  1  stu^ly  to  unrler.stand  the  true 
ground  of  the  superiority  of  his  character  over  many 
others,  uiiom  he  resembled  in  the  principles  of  ac- 
tion, and  even  in  t!ic  manner  of  ac:ing.  But  perhaps 
Jie  excels  all  tlie  ^rcat  men  that  ever  lived,  in  the 
.steadiness  of  liis  adherence  to  Iiis  maxims  of  life,  and 
in  the  uniformity  of  all  his  conckict  to  t!ie  same  max- 
ims. These  maxiius,  thousjfh  wise,  were  yet  not  so 
remarkable  for  their  wisdom,  as  for  their  authority 
over  his  life:  for  if  there  were  any  errors  in  iiis 
judgment,  (and  he  discovered  as  few  as  any  man) 
we  know  of  no  blemishes  in  his  virtue,  lie  was 
the  patriot  without  reproach  :  he  loved  his  country 
well  enough  to  hold  his  success  in  serving  it  an 
ample  recompense.  Thus  far  self  love  and  iove  of 
country  coincided:  but  when  his  country  needed  sa- 
crifices, that  no  other  man  could,  or  perhaps  would 
be  willing  to  make,  he  did  not  even  hesitate.  This 
was  virtue  in  its  most  exalted  character.  More  than 
once  he  put  Ids  fame  at  hazard,  when  he  liad  reason 
to  think  it  would  be  sacrificed,  at  least  in  this  age. 
Two  instances  cannot  be  denied  :  v/hen  the  army  was 
disbaiided  ;  and  again,  when  he  stood,  like  Leonidas 
at  the  pass  of  Thermopylae)  to  defend  our  independ- 
ence a'l^ainsi  France. 

It  is  indeeed  almost  as  diffieuit  to  draw  his  cliar- 
acter,  as  the  portrait  of  virtue.  The  reasons  arc  sim- 
ilar: our  ideas  of  moral  ex<elleace  are  ol)scure, 
l»e.'aase  they  are  complex,  and  we  are  obliged  to  resort 
to  illustralions.  WASMfNGrox's  example  is  the  hap- 
piest, to  shew  what  virtue  is;  and  to  delineate  his 
character,  we  naturally  expatiate  on  the  beauty  of 
virtue:  much  must  l)e  felt,  and  much  imagined. 
His  pre-eminence  is  not  so  much  to  be  seen  in  the 
displiy  of  any  one  virtue,  as  in  the  possession  of 
them  all,  and  in  t!ie  practice  of  the  most  difft  -ult. 
liereafier,  therefore,  his  character  m-ist  be  studied 
before  it  will  he  striking  ;  and  then  it  will  oe  admitted 
Si  a  model,  a  precious  one  tJ  a  free  rcpablio  ! 


Popular  Asscmblits.  227 

It  is  no  less  difficult  to  speak  of  his  talents.  They 
t^ere  adapted  to  Itad,  without  daxziing  inaiikiiid  ; 
and  to  draw  A  rtli  and  tn)})loy  the  lalents  uf  others, 
uitliout  l;eing  misjfd  hy  them.  In  this  lie  was  cer- 
tainly siip(ri(Hir,  tlial  he  neitlitr  niisfnok  nor  misap- 
plied his  own.  His  great  modesty  and  res(rve  would 
have  conceakd  them,  if  great  occasions  had  not  cal- 
led them  forth;  and  thtD,  as  he  never  spoke  from 
the  affectation  to  shine,  nor  acted  from  any  sinister 
motives,  it  is  from  their  cfTecls  only  that  we  are  to 
judge  of  their  greatness  and  (xlcnt.  In  puLlic  trusts 
where  men,  a(tiiig  conspicuously,  arc  raulicus,  and 
in  those  private  concern^,  where  few  conceal  or  resist 
their  weaknesses,  Washington  was  uniformiy  ?reat, 
pursuing  right  conduct  fn  m  right  maxims.  His  ta- 
lents were  such  as  assist  a  sound  judgn)cnt,  and  ri- 
pen with  it.  His  jiriidence  was  consun;raate,  and 
seemed  to  take  the  flirection  of  J)is  powers  and  pas- 
sions ;  for,  as  a  soldier,  lie  was  more  solicitous  to  a- 
void  mistakes  that  might  be  fatal,  than  to  perform 
exploits  that  are  hriiliant ;  and  as  a  statesman  to  ad- 
here to  just  principles,  how  ever  old,  than  to  pursue 
novelties  ;  and  therefore,  in  both  characters,  hisc^ua;!- 
ilies  were  singularly  adapted  to  the  interest,  and 
■were  tried  in  the  greatest  perils,  of  the  country.  His 
habits  of  inquiry  were  so  far  remarkable,  that  he  was 
never  satisfied  with  investigating,  nor  desisted  from 
it,  so  long  as  he  had  less  than  all  the  light  that  he 
could  obtain  upon  a  sul  ject,  and  then  he  made  his 
decision   without  a  i)ias. 

This  command  over  the  partialiiies  that  so  gene- 
rally stop  men  short,  or  turu  them  aside  in  their  pur- 
suit of  truth,  is  one  of  the  chief  caus<  s  of  his  unva- 
ried course  of  right  conduct  in  so  many  difficult 
scenes,  where  every  human  actor  must  be  presumed 
to  err.  If  he  had  strong  [;assions,  he  had  learned  to 
subdue  them,  and  to  be  moderate  and  mild.  If  he 
had  weaknesses,  he  coi^.cealed  them,  which  is  rare, 
and  excluded  them  from  the  government  of  his  tem- 
per and  conduct,  which  is  still  more  rare.     If  he  lo- 


228  Eloquence  of 

ved  fame,  he  never  made  improper  compliances  for 
>vhat  is  called  popularity.  The  fame  lie  enjoyed  is 
of  theki.id  that  will  last  fur  ever;  yet  it  was  rather 
the  eflert  than  the  motive  of  his  conduct  Some  fu- 
ture Plutarch  will  searcii  for  a  parallel  to  his  charac- 
ter. Epaminondas  is  perhaps  the  brightest  name  of 
all  antiquity.  Our  Washington  resembled  him  ia 
the  purity  rrnd  ardour  of  his  patriotism  ;  and,  like 
him,  he  first  exalted  the  glory  of  his  country.  Ihere, 
it  is  to  l)e  hoped,  the  parallel  ends :  for  Thebes  fell 
with  Epaminondas.  But  such  comparisons  cannot  be 
pursued  far,  a\  ithout  dej).'3rting  from  the  similitude. 
For  we  shall  find  it  as  difEcuilt  to  compare  great  men 
as  creat  rivers  :  some  we  admire  for  the  length  and 
rapidity  of  their  current,  and  the  grandeur  of  their 
cataracts  ;  others,  or  the  majestic  silence  and  ful- 
ness of  their  streams  :  we  cannot  bring  them  together 
to  measure  the  diiTerence  of  their  waters.  The  un- 
ambitious life  of  Washington,  declining  fame,  yet 
courted  by  it,  seemed  like  the  Ohio,  to  choose  its 
long  way  through  solitudes,  diffusing  fertility  ;  or 
like  his  own  Potow.nack,  widening  and  deepening 
his  channel,  as  he  apprt)aches  the  sea,  and  displaying 
most  the  usefulness  and  sereuit}''  of  his  greatness  to- 
wards the  end  of  his  course.  Such  a  citizen  \^ould 
do  honour  to  any  country.  The  constant  veneration 
and  alTertion  of  his  country  will  shew,  that  it  was 
worth    of  such  a  citizen. 

However  his  military  fame  may  excite  the  won- 
der of  mankind,  it  is  chiefly  by  his  civil  magistracy, 
that  his  example  will  instruct  them.  Great  generals 
have  arisen  in  all  ac^es  of  tlie  world,  and  perhaps 
most  in  those  of  despotism  and  darkness.  In  times 
of  violence  and  convulsion,  they  rise,  by  the  force 
of  the  whirlwir.d,  high  enough  to  ride  in  it,  and  di- 
rect the  storm.  Like  meteors,  they  glare  on  the 
black  clouds  with  a  splendour,  that,  while  it  dazzles 
and  terrifies,  make's  nothing  visible  but  the  darkness. 
The  fame  of  heroes  is  indeed  growing  vulgar :  they 
iimiti{)ly  in  every  long  war;  ihey  stand  in  history, 


Popular  Assemblies.  229 

Und  Ihickeii  in  their  ranks,  almost  as  undistinguished 
as  their  own  soldiers. 

But  such  a  cheif  nia^^istrate  as  Washington  ap- 
pears like  the  pole  star  in  a  clear  sky,  to  direct  the 
:;kilful  statesman.  His  presidency  will  Ibrra  an  epoch, 
and  be  distinguished  as  the  age  of  Washington. 
Already  it  assumes  its  higli  place  in  the  political  re- 
gion. Like  the  milky  Avay,  it  whitens  along  its  allot- 
ted portion  of  the  heuiisphere.  The  latest  genera- 
tions of  men  ui!I  survey,  through  the  telescope  of 
Ijislory,  tii«  space  where  so  many  virtues  blend  their 
rays,  and  delight  to  separate  them  into  groups  and 
distinct  virtues.  As  the  best  illustration  of  them, 
the  living  monument,  to  which  the  first  of  patriots 
would  have  chosen  to  consign  his  fame,  it  is  my  ear- 
nest praver  to  heaven,  that  our  country  may  sul)sist, 
«;vcu  to  that  late  day,  in  the  plenitude  of  its  liberty 
and  happiness,  and  mingle  its  mild  glory  with  Wash- 
isgion'£5. 


SECTION  XIV. 

Eulogy  on  Hamilton. 


It  is  with  really  great  men  as  with  great  literary 
works,  the  excellence  of  both  is  best  tested  by  the 
e-xtent  and  durableness  of  their  impression.  The 
public  has  not  suddenly,  but  after  an  experience  of 
five  and  twenty  years,  taken  that  impression  of  the 
just  celebrity  of  Alexan-.'£:u  Hamilton,  that  no- 
thing but  his  exiraordiuary  intrinsic  merit  could 
have  made,  and  still  less,  could  ha\e  made  so  deep 
and  maintained  so  long.  In  this  case,  it  is  safe  and 
correct  to  judge  by  ciliects :  we  sometimes  calculate 
the  height  of  a  nionntain,  by  measuring  (he  feagfh 
of  its  shadow. 

U 


230  Eloquence  of 

That  wrher  would  deserve  llie  fame  of  a  public 
bencfaclor,  who  could  txhibit  llie  character  of  Ha- 
wiLTON,  \\ilh  the  truth  anti  force  that  all  who  inti- 
jnatcly  knew  liini  conceived  it:  his  example  would 
then  take  the  same  ascendant,  as  his  talents.  The 
portrait  alone,  however  exquisitely  finished,  could  not 
inspire  genius  where  it  is  not  ;  but,  if  the  world 
should  again  have  possession  of  so  rare  a  gift,  it 
iiii2;lit  awaken  it  where  it  sleeps,  as  by  a  sj)ark  from 
Leaven's  own  altar  ;  for,  surely,  if  there  is  any  thing 
like  divinity  in  man,  it  is  in  his  admiration  of  vir- 
tue. 

But  who  alive  can  exhibit  this  portrait  ?  If  our 
:ige,  on  that  supposition  more  fruitful  than  any  other, 
had  j)roduced  two  Hamiltons,  one  of  them  might 
then  iiave  depicted  the  other.  To  delineate  genius 
one  must  feel  its  power  :  Hamilton,  and  he  alone, 
with  all  its  inspirations,  could  have  tansfustd  its 
whole  fervid  soul  into  the  picture,  and  swelled  its  li- 
nemenls  into  life.  The  writer's  mind,  expanding 
W'ith  his  own  peculiar  enthusiasm,  and  glowing  \\ith 
kindred  fires,  would  then  have  stretched  to  the  di- 
mensions of  his  subject. 

It  is  rare,  that  a  man,  wlio  owes  so  much  to  na- 
ture, descends  to  seek  more  from  industry  ;  but  lie 
seemed  to  depend  on  induf^try,  as  if  nature  had  done 
nothing  for  him.  His  habits  of  investigation  were 
very  remarkable;  his  mind  seemed  to  cling  to  his 
subject,  till  he  had  exhausted  it.  Hence  tlie  uncom- 
mon superiority  of  his  reasoning  powers,  a  superior- 
ity that  seemed  to  be  augmented  from  every  source, 
and  to  be  fortified  by  every  auxiliary,  learning,  taste, 
wit,  imagination,  and  eloquence.  These  were  em- 
bciiishcd  and  enforced  by  his  temper  and  manners, 
]>y  his  fame  and  liis  virtues.  It  is  diihcult,  in  the 
midst  of  such  various  excellence,  to  say  in  what 
particular  the  effect  of  his  greatness  was  most  mani- 
fest. No  man  more  promptly  discerned  truth  ;  no 
man  more  clearly  displayed  it  :  it  was  not  merely 
juade  visible — it   seemed  to  come  bright  with  illumi- 


Popular  Assemblies.  231 

nation  from  his  lips.  But  prompt  aaJ  clear  as  he 
^vas,  fervid  as  Demosthenes,  like  Cicero,  fall  of  re- 
source, he  was  not  less  remarkable  for  the  copious- 
ness and  conij)leteness  of  liis  argument,  that  left  little 
for  cavil,  and  nothing'  for  doubt.  Some  men  take 
iheir  strongest  argument  as  a  weapon,  and  use  uo 
other  ;  but  he  left  nothing  to  be  inquired  for  more — 
nothing  to  be  answered.  He  not  only  disarmed  his 
a<lversaries  of  their  pretexts  and  objections,  but  he 
stripped  them  of  all  excuse  for  having  urged  them  ; 
lie  confounded  anrl  subdueil,  as  well  as  convinced. 
He  indemnified  them,  however,  by  making  his  dis- 
cussion a  complete  map  of  his  subject ;  so  that  his 
opponents  might  indeed,  feel  ashamed  of  t'leir  mis- 
takes, J)ut  they  could  not  repeat  them.  In  fact,  it 
Avas  no  conuuon  eflbrt  that  could  preserve  a  really 
able  antagonist  from  becoming  his  convert  ;  for  the 
truth,  which  his  researches  so  distinctly  presented  to 
the  understanding  of  others,  was  rendered  almost  ir- 
resistibly commanding  and  impressive  by  the  love  and 
reverence,  which  it  was  ever  apparent,  he  profound- 
ly cherished  for  it  in  his  own.  While  patriotism 
glowtd  in  his  heart,  wisdom  blended  in  his  speech 
her  authority  with  her  chaims. 

Such,  also  is  the  character  of  his  writingn.  Ju- 
diciously collected,  they  will^be  a  public  treasure. 

No  man  ever  more  disdained  duplicity,  or  carried 
franknciiS  further  than  he.  This  gave  to  his  political 
opponents  some  temporvy  advantages,  and  currency 
to  some  popular  prejudices,  which  he  .vould  have 
lived  down,  if  his  death  had  not  prematurely  dispel- 
led them.  He  knew,  that  factions  have  ever  in  the 
end  prevailed  in  free  states :  and,  as  he  saw  no  secu- 
rity (and  who  living  can  see  any  adequate?)  against 
the  destruction  of  that  libcrly  which  he  loved,  and 
for  which  he  was  ever  ready  to  devote  his  life,  he 
spoke  at  all  times  according  to  his  anxious  forebo- 
dings ;  and  his  enemies  interpreted  all  that  he  said 
according  to  the  supposed  interest  of  their  party. 


232  Eloquence  of 

But  lie  never  extorted  conGdence,  even  when 
Jie  most  provoked  opposition.  It  was  impossible  to 
deny,  that  lie  was  a  patriot,  and  such  a  patriot,  as, 
seekin,£^  neither  popularity  nor  office,  without  artifice, 
without  meanness,  the  hc.«t  Romans  in  their  best  days 
r/ould  have  admitted  to  ciiizenship  and  to  the  consu- 
iatc.  Virtue,  so  rare,  so  pure,  so  bold,  by  its  very 
purity  and  excellence,  inspired  suspicion,  as  a  prodi- 
gy. His  enemies  judged  of  him  by  themselves:  so 
splendid  and  arduous  were  his  services,  they  could 
not  find  it  in  their  hearts  to  believe  that  they  w^ere 
disinterested. 

Unparalleled  as  they  were,  they  were  neverthe- 
less, no  otherwise  requited,  than  by  the  applause  of 
all  good  men,  and  by  his  own  enjoyment  of  the  spec- 
tacle of  that  national  prosperity  and  honour,  which 
was  the  efiect  of  Ihem.  After  facing  calumny,  and 
triumphantly  surmounting  an  unrelenting  persecution, 
he  retired  frora  office,  with  clean,  though  empty 
liands,  as  rich  as  reputation  and  an  unblemished  in- 
tegrity could  make  him. 

Some  have  plausibly,  thougli  erroneously,  inferred 
from  the  great  extent  of  his  abilities,  that  his  ambi- 
tion was  inordinate.  This  is  a  mistake.  Such  men, 
as  have  a  painful  consciousness,  that  their  stations 
happen  to  be  far  more  exalted  tlian  their  talents,  arc 
generally  the  most  ambitious.  IIamiltok,  on  the 
contrary,  though  he  had  many  competitors,  had  no 
rivals  ;  for  he  did  not  thirst  for  power,  nor  would  he, 
as  it  was  well  known,  descend  to  office.  Of  course, 
lie  suPieretl  no  pain  from  envy,  when  bad  men  rose, 
thougli  he  felt  anxiety  for  the  public.  He  was  per- 
ft;  tiy  content  and  at  ease  in  private  life.  Of  what 
was  b.ean}l>itious  ?  Not  of  wealtli — no  man  held  it 
rlieaper.  Was  it  of  popularity  ?  That  weed  of  the 
dungliill,  he  knew  when  rankest  was  nearest  lo 
withering.  There  is  no  doubt,  that  he  desired  glory, 
Avhich  to  most  men  is  too  inacoxssible  to  be  an  object 
of  desire-,  but  fcfling  his  own  force,  and  that  h« 
was  tall  enough  to  reach  the  ton  of  Pindus  or  of  He- 


Popular  Assemblies.  333 

licon,  he  longed  to  deck  liis  hrow  M'ith  the  \s'reath  of 
immortality.  A  vulgar  ambition  could  as  little  com- 
prehend, as  satisfy  his  views:  lie  tliirsted  only  for 
that  fame,  which  virtue  would  not  blush  to  confer, 
nor  time  to  ccavey  to  the  end  of  his  course. 

The  only  ordinary  distinction,  to  whici),  we  con- 
fess, he  did  aspire,  was  military  ;  and  for  that,  in 
the  event  of  a  foreis^n  war,  lie  would  have  };een  soli- 
citt)us.  He  undoubtedly  discovered  the  predomi- 
nance of  a  soldier's  feelings  ;  and  all  that  is  honour, 
in  the  character  of  a  soldier,  was  at  home  in  his  heart. 
His  early  education  was  in  the  camp  ;  there  the  first 
fervours  of  his  genius  were  poured  forth,  and  his 
earliest  and  most  cordial  friendships  formed  ;  there 
lie  became  enamoured  of  glory,  and  was  admitted  to 
her  embrace. 

Those  who  knew  him  best,  and  especially  in  the 
army,  M'ill  believe,  that  if  occasions  had  called  hiiu 
forth,  he  was  qualified,  beyond  any  man  of  the  age, 
to  display  the  talents  of  a  great  general. 

It  may  be  very  long,  before  our  country  will  want 
jsisch  military  talents;  it  will  probably  be  much  long^ 
er,  before  it  will  again  possess  them. 

Alas!  the  great  man  who  was,  at  all  limes,  so 
much  the  ornament  of  our  country,  and  so  exclusive- 
ly fitted,  in  its  extremity,  to  be  its  champion,  is  with- 
drawn to  a  purer  and  more  tranquil  region.  We  are 
left  to  endless  labours  and  unavailing  regrets. 

Such  honours  Iliou  lo  her  hero  paid. 

And  peaceful  slept  the  mighty  Hector's  shade. 

The  most  substantial  glory  of  a  country,  is  in  its 
virtuous  great  men  :  its  prosperity  will  depend  on  its 
docility  to  learn  from  their  example.  That  nation  ia 
fated  to  ignominy  and  servitude,  for  which  such  men 
have  lived  in  vain.  Power  may  be  seized  by  a  na- 
tion, that  is  yet  barbarous ;  and  wealth  may  he  enjoy- 
ed by  one,  that  it  finds  or  renders  sordid:  the  one 
is  the  gift  and  the  sport  of  accident,  and  the  other  is 
U2 


234  Eloquence  of 

the  sport  of  power.  Botli  are  mutable,  and  have 
jKisscd  away  without  Icaviiis^  behind  them  any  other 
memorial  than  ruins  that  otVcnd  tasle,  and  traditions 
that  baffle  conjecture.  But  the  glory  of  Greece  is 
imperishable,  or  will  last  as  long  as  learning  itself, 
vvhich  is  its  monument  :  it  strikes  an  everlasting  root, 
and  bears  perennial  blossoms  on  its  grave.  The  name 
of  Hamilton  would  liavc  honoured  Greece,  in  the 
age  of  Aristides.  May  heaven,  the  guardian  of  our 
liberty,  grant,  that  our  country  may  be  fruitful  of 
Hamiltoxs,  and  faithful  to  their  glory. 


SECTION  XV. 

Eulogy  on  Fisher  Ames. 


Mr.  Ames  was  distinguished  among  tlie  eminent 
men  of  our  country.  All  admitted,  for  they  felt  his 
extraordinary  powers  ;  few  pretended  to  douf>t,  if  any- 
seemed  to  deny  the  purity  of  his  heart.  His  exem- 
plary life  commanded  respect ;  the  charms  of  his  con- 
versation and  manners  won  aflection.  He  was  equally 
admired  and  beloved. 

His  public  career  was  short  but  ])rilliant.  Called 
into  the  service  of  Iiis  country  in  seasons  of  her  most 
critical  einergency,  and  partaking  in  the  management 
of  her  councils  during  a  most  mteresting  period  of 
jier  history,  he  obtained  a  place  in  the  first  rank  of 
her  statesiuen,  legislators,  orators,  and  patriots.  By 
a  powerful  and  original  genius,  an  impressive  and 
uniform  virtue  he  succeeded,  as  fully  perhaps  as  any 
political  cliaracler  in  a  republic  agitated  by  divisions 
ever  did,  in  surmounting  the  two  pernicious  vices, 
designated  by  the  inimitable  biographer  of  Agricola, 
insensibility  to  merit  on  the  one  hand,  and  envy  on 
the  other. 


Popular  Assemblies.  28S 

The  reader  of  liis  works  will,  no  doubt,  concur 
\vit!i  those  who  knew  him  and  wlio  heard  him  in  pub- 
lic and  private,  in  saying,  tiiat  he  had  a  mind  of  high 
order,  in  some  particulars  of  the  highest,  and  that  he 
has  a  just  claim  to  be  classed  with  the  men  of  genius, 
that  quality  which  it  is  so  much  more  easy  to  discern 
than  to  define  ;  "that  qualiiy,  witliout  which  judg- 
ment is  cold  and  knowledge  inert ;  that  energy  which 
collects,  combines,  amplifies,  and  animates.'"  We 
observe  in  Mr  Ames  a  liberal  portion  of  all  the  fac- 
ulties and  qualities  tiiat  enter  into  this  character,  un- 
derstanding, memory,  imagination,  invention,  sensi- 
bility, ardour. 

As  a  speaker  and  as  a  writer  he  had  tl:c  {)ower  to 
enlighten  and  persuade,  to  move,  to  phase,  to  charm, 
to  astonish.  lie  united  those decorativu^s  ihat  .'jelong 
to  fine  talents  to  that  penetration  and  judgment  tliat 
designate  an  acute  and  solid  mind.  Many  of  his  opiu-" 
ions  have  the  autiiority  of  })redictions  fulfiiltrd  and 
fulfilling.  He  had  the  ability  of  investigation,  and, 
where  it  was  necessary,  did  investigate  with  patient 
attention,  going  through  a  series  of  observation  and 
deduction,  and  tracing  the  links  which  connect  one 
truth  with  another.  When  the  result  of  his  resea,rc]i- 
es  was  exhibited  in  discourse,  the  steps  of  a  logical' 
process  were  in  some  measure  concealed  by  the  col- 
ouring of  rhetoric.  Minute  calculations  and  dry  de- 
tails were  employments,  however  the  least  adapted  to 
his  peculiar  construction  of  mind.  It  was  easy  and 
delightful  for  him  to  illustrate  by  a  picture,  but  pain- 
ful and  laborious  to  })rove  by  a  diagram.  It  was  tlic 
prerogative  of  his  mind  to  discern  by  a  glance,  so  ra- 
pid as  to  seem  intuition,  those  truths  which  common 
capacities  struggle  hard  to  apprehend  ;  and  it  was  the 
part  of  his  eloquence  to  display,  expand,  and  enforce 
them. 

His  imagination  was  a  distinguishing  feature  of  his 
mind.  Prolific,  grand,  sportive,  original,  it  gave  him 
the  command  of  nature  and  art,  and  enabled  him  to 
vary  the  disposition  and  the  dress  of  his  ideas  ^yithout 


2f)6  Eloquence  rf 

end.  Nou'  it  assembled  most  pleasing  ima^^cs,  adoni- 
f.d  with  all  that  is  soft  and  beautiful ;  and  now  rose 
in  the  storm,  weilding  the  elements  and  flashing  with 
the  most  awful  splendours. 

Yery  few  men  have  produced  more  orisjinal  com- 
biuatjons.  He  presented  resemblances  and  contrasts 
\rhic!i  none  saw  before,  but  all  admitted  to  be  just  and 
striking.  In  delicate  and  powerful  wit  lie  was  pre- 
eminent. 

He  did  not  systematically  study  the  exterior  graces 
of  speakiiig,  but  his  atitudc  was  erect  and  easy,  his 
gestures  manly  and  forcible,  his  intonations  varied 
and  expressive,  his  articulation  distinct,  and  his  whole 
manner  animated  and  natural.  His  written  composi- 
tions, it  will  be  perceived,  have  that  glow  and  vivacity 
which  belonged  to  his  speeches. 

AH  the  other  elTorls  of  his  mind,  however,  were 
probably  exceeded  by  his  powers  in  conversation, 
lie  appeared  amoiig  his  friends  with  an  illuminated 
face,  and  with  peculiar  amenity  and  captivating  kind- 
ness displayed  all  the  playful  felicity  of  his  wit,  the 
force  of  his  intellect,  and  the  fertility  of  his  imagina- 
tion. 

On  tlie  kind  or  degree  of  excellence  which  criticism 
may  concede  or  deny  to  ■Mr.  Ames's  productions,  we 
do  not  undertake  with  accurate  discrimination  to  de- 
termine. He  was  undoubtedly  rather  actuated  by 
the  genius  of  oratory,  than  disciplined  by  the  precepts 
of  rhetoric ;  was  more  intent  on  exciting  attention  and 
interest  and  producing  eflect,  than  securing  the  praise 
of  skill  in  the  artifice  of  composition.  Hence  critics, 
might  be  dissatisfied,  yet  hearers  charmed.  The  a- 
bundance  of  materials,  the  energy  and  quickness  of 
conception,  the  inexhaustible  fertility  of  mind,  which 
he  possessed,  as  they  did  not  require,  so  they  forbade 
a  rigid  adherence  to  artificial  guides  in  the  disposition 
and  employment  of  his  inteilectual  stores.  To  a  cer- 
tain extent,  such  a  spea;.tr  and  wriier  may  claim  t« 
be  his  own  authority. 


Fojndar  Asseinblies.  237 

Image  croudcd  upon  iraa,q:c  in  his  mind,  lie  is  not 
cliargeable  with  affectalion  in  i be  use  of  figurative 
language  ;  Jiis  tropes  are  evidently  proinjjte'l  l)y  imaE- 
ginalion,  and  not  forced  into  liis  service.  Their  nov- 
elty and  variety  create  constant  sr.rprise  and  delight. 
But  they  are,  perliaps,  too  lavisldy  employed.  The 
fancy  of  his  hearers  is  sometimes  overplied  with  stiiti- 
nlus,  and  tlie  importance  of  the  tliought  Hahlc  to  1)6 
concealed  in  the  multitude  and  heauty  of  the  meta- 
phors. His  condensation  of  expression  raay  ])e 
thought  to  prochice  occasional  abruptness.  He  aimed 
rather  at  the  terseness,  strength,  and  vivacity  of  the, 
short  sentence,  than  the  dignity  of  the  full  and  flow- 
ing period.  His  style  is  conspicuous  for  sententious 
brevity,  for  antithesis  and  point.  Single  ideas  appear 
with  sonnich  lustre  and])roininence,  that  the  connec- 
tion of  the  several  parts  of  his  discourse  is  not  always 
obvious  to  the  common  mind,  and  the  aggregate  im- 
pression of  the  composition  is  not  always  completely 
obtained.  In  those  respects  where  his  peculiar  ex- 
cellencies came  near  to  defects,  he  is  rather  to  be  ad- 
mired than  imitated. 

In  public  speaking  he  trusted  much  to  excitement, 
nnd  did  little  more  in  his  ck)sct  than  draw  the  out- 
lines of  ids  speech  and  reflect  on  it,  till  he  liad  received 
deeply  the  impressions  he  intended  to  make  ;  depend- 
ing for  the  turns  and  figures  of  languace.  iilnstralions 
and  modes  of  appeal  to  the  passions,  on  his  itnagina- 
tion  and  feelings  at  the  time.  This  excitement  con- 
tinued, when  the  cause  had  ceased  to  operate.  After 
debate  his  mind  was  agitated,  like  the  ocean  after  a 
storm,  and  his  nerves  were  like  the  shrouds  of  a  ship, 
lorn  I)y  the  tempest. 

Mr.  Amcs's  character  as  a  patriot  rc.^^ts  on  the 
highest  and  firmest  ground.  He  loved  his  country 
with  equal  purity  and  fervour.  This  afl'ection  was 
the  spring  of  all  his  eflbrts  to  promote  her  welfare. 
The  glory  of  being  a  benefactor  to  a  great  people  he 
could  not  despi:;e,  but  justly  valued.  He  was  covet- 
ous of  tjjfi  fame  purchased  by  desert  ;   but  he  v"?a  9.- 


5338  Eloquence  of 

bovc  amiiition  ;  and  popularity,  except  as  an  instrn- 
meiit  of  public  service,  weighed  uothing  in  the  bal- 
ance by  which  he  estimated  good  and  evil. 

It  is  happy  for  mankind,  when  those  who  engage 
admiration  deserve  eslcera  ;  for  vice  and  fjliy  derive 
a  pernicious  influence  from  an  alliance  with  qualities 
that  naturally  command  applause.  In  the  character 
of  ?\if.  Ames  the  circle  of  the  virtues  seemed  to  be 
complete,  and  eacli  virtue  in  its  proper  place. 

The  objects  of  religion  presented  themselves  with 
a  strong  interest  to  his  mind.  The  relation  of  the 
world  to  its  Author,  and  of  this  life  to  a  retributory 
scene  in  another,  could  not  be  contemplated  by  him 
without  the  greatest  solemnity.  The  religious  sense 
was,  in  his  view,  essential  in  the  constitution  of  man. 
He  placed  a  full  reliance  on  the  divine  origin  of  Chris- 
tianity. If  there  was  ever  a  lime  in  his  life,  whtn 
the  light  of  revelation  shone  dimly  upon  his  under- 
standing, he  did  not  rashly  close  his  mind  against 
clearer  vision,  for  he  was  more  fearful  of  mistakes  to 
the  disadvantage  of  a  system,  which  he  saw  to  be  ex- 
cellent and  benign,  than  of  prepossessions  in  its  fa- 
vour. He  felt  it  his  duty  and  interest  to  inquire,  and  dis- 
covered on  the  side  of  faith  a  fulness  of  evidence  little 
short  of  demonstration.  At  about  thirty -five  he  made 
a  public  profession  of  his  belief  in  the  christian  reli- 
gion, antl  was  a  regular  attendant  on  its  services.  In 
regard  to  articles  of  belief,  his  conviction  was  confin- 
ed to  those  leading  principles,  about  which  christians 
have  little  diversity  of  oi)iuion.  Subtle  questions  of 
theology,  from  various  causes  often  agitated,  but  nev- 
er determined,  he  neither  pretended  nor  desired  to  in- 
vestigate, satisfied  that  they  related  to  points  uncer- 
tain or  unimportant.  He  loved  to  view  religion  on 
the  practical  side,  as  designed  to  operate  by  a  fe\^r 
simple  and  grand  truths  on  the  affections,  actions,  and 
habits  of  meti.  He  cherished  the  sentiment  and  e>r- 
perieuce  of  religion,  careful  to  ascertain  the  genuine- 
ness and  value  of  impressions  and  feelings  i)y  ^Ueif 
moral  tendency. 


Popular  Assemblies.  239 

He  of  all  men  ^vas  the  last  to  cvonntcnance  exclu- 
sive claims  to  purity  of  faitli,  founded  on  a  zeal  for 
peculiar  do,i?nias,  \shich  nuiltiliides  of  good  men, 
approved  friends  of  triitli,  nfttrly  rojcot.  He  was 
ro  enemy  to  improvement,  to  fair  inqniry,  and  chris- 
tian fiecdom  ;  but  innovations  in  the  modes  of  wor- 
sjiip  and  instruction,  without  pal|)al)le  necessity  or 
advantage,  he  discouraged,  as  lending  to  break  the 
salutary  associations  of  ti.e  j)ious  mind.  His  conver- 
sation and  bciiaviour  evinced  the  sincerity  of  his  re- 
ligious impressions.  No  levity  upon  these  subjects 
ever  escaped  Jiis  lips;  but  his  manner  of  rccui  ring- 
to  them  in  conversation  indicated  reverence  and  feel- 
ing. The  su!;limc,  the  allecting  character  of  Christ 
he  never  mentioned  u'ithont  emotion. 

He  was  gratel'ully  sensible  of  the  peculiar  felicity  of 
liis  domestic  life.  In  his  beloved  liorac  Isis  sickness 
found  all  the  alleviatii>n,  that  a  judicious  and  unwea- 
ried tenderness  could  minister  ;  and  liis  intervals  of 
health  a  succession  of  every  heartfelt  satisfaction. 
The  complacency  of  his  looks,  the  sweetnesss  of  his 
tones,  his  mild  and  often  pla\ful  manner  of  impart- 
ing instruction,  evinced  his  extreme  delight  in  the 
society  of  Lis  family,  who  felt  that  they  derived  from 
him  their  clrief  happiness,  and  found  in  his  conver- 
sation and  example  a  constant  excitement  to  noble 
and  virtuous  conduct.  As  a  husband  and  father,  he 
uas  all  that  is  provident,  kind,  and  exemplary.  He 
was  rivlted  in  the  regards  of  those  who  were  in  his  ser- 
vice. He  feit  all  the  lies  of  kincJred.  The  delicacy, 
the  ardour,  and  constanc}',  with  which  he  cherished 
his  frier.ds,  his  readiness  to  the  offices  of  go(;d  neigh- 
bourhood, and  his  proi)ensity  to  contrive  and  execute 
plans  of  public  improvement,  formed  traits  in  his 
character,  each  of  remarkable  strength.  He  cultiva- 
ted friendship  by  an  active  and  punctual  correspon- 
dence, which  made  the  number  of  his  letters  vtry 
great,  and  which  are  not  less  excellent  than  nume- 
rous. 


2?4iO  Eloquence  of 

He  had  no  envy,  for  he  felt  no  personal  rivalry. 
His  ambition  was  c»f  tliat  purified  sort,  which  is  ra- 
ther the  desire  of  excellence  tlian  the  reputation  of  it: 
he  aimed  more  at  desert,  than  at  superiority.  He 
loved  to  bestow  praise  on  those  who  were  competitors 
for  the  same  kuid  of  public  consideration  as  himself, 
not  fearing  tliat  he  should  sink  i)y  their  elevation. 

He  was  tenacious  of  his  rights,  but  scrupulous  in 
his  respect  to  the  rights  of  others.  The  obloquy  of 
political  opponents,  was  sometimes  the  price  he  paid 
for  not  deserving  it.  But  it  could  liardly  give  him 
pain>  for  he  had  no  vulnerable  points  in  his  character, 
lie  had  a  perfect  command  of  his  temper  ;  his  anger 
never  proceeded  to  passion,  nor  his  sense  of  injury 
to  revenge.  If  there  v/as  occasional  asperity  in  his 
language,  it  was  easy  to  see  there  was  no  malignity 
in  his  disposition.  He  tasted  the  good  of  his  exis- 
tence with  cheerful  gratitude  ;  and  received  its  evil 
as  became  a  chrisiian. 

In  faint  lines  we  have  sketclied  the  character  of 
this  man  of  worth.  If  the  reader  ask,  why  he  is 
represented  without  blemishes,  the  answtr  is,  that, 
though  as  a  man  he  undoubtedly  had  faults,  yet  they 
were  so  few,  so  trivial,  or  so  lost  among  his  virtues, 
as  not  to  be  observed,  or  not  to  be  remembered. 


SECTION  XVI. 

The  Character  of  Brutus. 

15i{trTi:s  killed  his  benefactor  and  friend,  Cesar^ 
because  Cesar  had  usurped  the  sovereign  power. — 
Therefore  Brutus  was  a  patriot,  whose  character  is 
to  be  admired,  and  whcse  example  should  be  imita- 
ted, as  long  as  republican  liberiy  sliali  have  a  friend 
or  au  eneiiiy  in  the  world. 


Popular  AssonblU  s.  211 

This  short  argument  sceras  to  have,  hitherto,  vhi- 
dlcated  the  fame  of  Brutus  from  reproach  ajul  even 
from  scrutiny  ;  yet,  perhaps,  no  character  hns  bccii 
more  over-rate<l,  and  no  example  worse  applied.  He 
was,  no  doubt,  an  excellent  sclio'ar  and  a  complete 
master,  as  well  as  faithful  votary  of  pliilosophy  •,  but, 
ill  action,  the  impetuous  Cassias  greatly  e.^iccilcd 
him.  Cassias  alone  of  all  the  conspirators  acted  wit li 
promptness  and  energy  in  providing  for  the  war, 
w  liich,  he  foresaw,  the  death  of  Cesar  would  kindle  ; 
Brutus  spent  his  time  in  indolence  and  repining,  the 
dupe  of  Anthony's  arts,  or  of  his  own  false  estimate 
of  Roman  spirit  and  virtue.  The  people  had  lost  a 
hind  master,  and  they  lamented  him.  Brutus  sum- 
moned them  to  make  efforts  and  sacrifices,  and  they 
viewed  his  cause  with  apathy,  his  crime  with  abhor- 
rence. 

Before  the  decisive  battle  of  Philippi,  Brutus 
seems,  after  the  death  of  Cassius,  to  have  sunk  un- 
der the  wti:;ht  of  the  sole  command.  He  still  had 
many  able  oDJcer.s  left,  and  amon;^  tliom  Messala, 
one  of  the  first  men  of  that  age,  so  fruitful  of  great 
men ;  ,but  Ih'ulus  no  longer  nifiintaiPied  that  ar-cen- 
dant  over  his  army,  which  talents  of  the  Grst  order 
maintain  every  where,  and  most  signally  in  the  camp 
and  field  of  battle.  It  is  fairly,  then,  to  I)e  presu- 
med, that  his  troops  had  (Uscovcred,  that  Brutus, 
who.m  they  loved  and  esteemed,  was  destitute  of 
those  talents;  for  he  was  soon  ouligel  by  their  clam- 
ours, much  against  his  judgincnt,  and  against  all 
prudence  and  good  sence,  to  give  battle.  Thus  en- 
ded the  life  of  Brutus  and  the  existence  of  the  re- 
pulilic. 

Whatever  doubt  there  may  be  of  the  political  and 
military  capacity  of  Brutus,  there  is  none  concerning 
his  virtue:  his  principles  of  action  vtcre  the  noblest 
that  ancient  philosophy  had  taught,  and  his  actions 
were  conformed  to  his  principles.  Nevertheless, 
our  admiration  of  the  man  ought  not  to  blind  our 
judgment  of  the  deed,  v.ldch,  tiicugh  it  was  ilia  blem- 

Y 


i^42  Eloquence  of 

isli  of  his  'virtue,  has  shed  an  unfaJIng  splendour 
on  his  name. 

For,  tl.oiTgh  the  multitude  to  the  end  of  time  will 
hcopcn  lo  flattery,  and  will  joyfully  assist  their  Hatter- 
era  to  become  their  tyrants,  yet  they  will  never  cease 
to  hate  tyrants  and  tyranny  with  equal  sincerity  and 
\-ehemence.  Hence  it  is,  that  the  memory  of  Bra- 
tiis,  who  slew  a  tyrant,  is  consecrated  as  the  cham- 
pion and  martyr  of  liberty,  and  will  flcurisli  and  look 
green  in  declamation,  as  long  as  the  people  are  prone 
to  believe,  that  those  are  their  Ijest  friends,  who  have 
proved  themselves  the  greatest  enemies  of  their  ene- 
laies. 

Ask  any  man  of  morals,  whether  he  approves 
of  assassination ;  he  will  answer,  No.  Would  you 
k\\\  your  friend  and  Lenefactor  ?  No.  The  question 
is  a  horrible  insult.  Would  you  practise  hypocrisy 
and  smile  in  his  face,  while  your  conspiracy  is  ripen- 
ing, to  gain  his  conhdence  and  to  lull  him  into  secu- 
rity, in  order  to  take  away  his  life?  Every  honest 
man,  on  the  bare  suggestion,  feels  his  blood  thicken 
and  stagnate  at  his  heart.  Yet  in  this  picture  we  see 
Brutus.  It  would,  perhaps,  be  scarcely  just  to  hold 
him  up  to  a])horrence  ;  it  is,  certainly,  monstrous 
and  absurd  to  exhibit  his  conduct  to  admiration. 

He  did  not  strike  the  tyrant  from  hatred  or  ambi- 
tion :  his  motives  are  admitted  to  be  good  ;  but  was 
not  the  action,  nevertheless,  bad  ? 

To  kill  a  tyrant  is  as  much  murder,  as  to  kill 
any  other  man.  Besides,  Brutus,  to  extenuate  the 
crime,  could  have  had  no  rr/i'/orjfT^  hope  of  putting 
an  end  to  the  tyranny:  he  had  foreseen  and  pro\ided 
nothing  to  realize  it.  The  conspirators  relied,  fool- 
ishly enough,  on  the  love  of  the  multitude  for  liber- 
ty— they  loved  their  safety,  their  ease,  their  sports, 
and  their  demagogue  favourites  a  great  deal  better. 
They  quietly  looked  on,  as  spectators,  and  left  it  to 
the  legions  of  Anthony,  an-i  Octavius,  and  to  those 
of  Syria,  Macedonia,  and  Greece,  to  decide,  in  the 
field'of  Philipi)!,  whether  there  sliould  be  a  repubiic 


Popular  Assemblies.  2'ko 

or  not.  It  was,  accorcUngl}^  decided  in  favour  of 
an  emperor  ;  and  the  people  sincerely  rejoiced  in  the 
jioliticai  calm,  tliat  restored  the  games  of  the  circus, 
and  the  plenty  of  bread. 

Tiiose,  who  cannot  bring  their  judgments  to  con- 
demn the  killing  of  a  tyrant,  must  nevertheless  agree 
that  the  blood  of  Cesar  was  unprofitably  slied.  Lib- 
erty gained  nothing  by  it,  and  humanity  lost  much  ; 
for  it  cost  eighteen  years  of  agitation  and  civil  war, 
before  the  ambition  of  the  military  and  popular  chief- 
tains had  expended  its  means,  and  the  power  was 
concentred  in  one  man's  hands. 

Shall  we  be  told,  the  example  of  Brutus  is  a  good 
one,  because  it  will  never  cease  to  animate  the  race 
of  tyrant-killers — But  v.dll  the  fancied  jisefulness  of 
assassination  overcome  our  instinctive  sense  of  its  hor- 
ror ?  Is  it  to  become  a  i)art  of  our  political  morals, 
that  the  chief  of  a  state  is  to  be  stabbed  or  poisoned, 
■whenever  a  fanatick,  a  malccontent,  or  a  reformer 
shall  rise  up  and  call  him  a  tyrant  ?  Then  there 
would  be  as  little  calm  in  despotism  as  in  liljerty. 

But  when  has  it  happened,  that  the  death  of  a 
usurper  lias  restored  to  the  bublic  liberty  its  departed 
life?  Every  successful  usurpation  creates  many  com- 
}/etiiors  for  power,  and  they  success iv^ely  fall  in 
the  struggle.  In  all  this  agitation,  liberty  is  without 
friends,  without  resources,  and  without  hope.  Blood 
enough,  and  the  blood  of  tyrants  too,  was  shed  be- 
tween the  time  of  the  *vars  of  IMarius  and  the  death 
of  Anthony,  a  pt;riod  of  about  sixty  years,  to  turn  a 
common  grist-mill ;  yet  the  cause  of  the  public  liber- 
ty continually  grew  more  and  more  desperate.  It  is 
not  by  destroying  tyrants,  that  wc  are  to  extinguish 
tyranny  :  nature  is  not  thus  to  be  exhausted  of  her 
power  to  produce  them.  The  soil  of  a  republic 
sprouts  V  iih  the  rankest  fertility:  it  has  been  sown 
with  dragon's  teeth.  To  lessen  the  hopes  of  usurp- 
ing demagogues,  we  must  enlighten,  animate  and  com- 
bine the  spirit  of  freemen  ;  we  must  fortify  and  guard 
the  coiiStitutional  ramparts  about  liberty.     When  its 


214  Eloquence  of 

fiicnds  become  intlulent  or  disheartened,  it  is  no  lon- 
ger of  any  ira[)ortance  how  long-lived  are  its  enemies  : 
they  will  prove  imnjortal. 

Nor  will  it  avail  to  say,  that  the  famous  deed  of 
I'mtus  will  for  ever  check  the  audacity  of  tyrants. 
Of  all  passions  fear  is  the  most  cruel.  If  new  tyrants 
dread  other  Bruti,  they  Vv'ill  more  naturally  sooth  their 
jealousy  by  persecution?^,  than  by  the  practice  of  cle- 
mency or  justice.  They  v.iil  say,  the  clemency 
of  Cesar  proved  fatal  to  him.  They  will  augment 
iheir  force  and  multiply  their  precautions;  and 
their  habitual  dread  will  degenerate  into  habitual 
cruelty. 

Have  we  not  then  a  right  to  conclude,  that  tlie 
character  of  Eruius  is  greatly  over  rated,  and  the 
fashionaf>le  approbation  of  his  example  horribly  cor- 
rupting and  pernicious  ? 


CHAP.  ir. 


Eloquchfc  of  the  Bar. 

The  ends  of  speaking  at  tlue  Eat  are  diiTerent  from 
those  of  Popular  Assemblies.  In  the  latter  the  great 
object  is  persuasion  ;  the  Orator  aims  at  determining 
the  hearers  to  some  clioice  or  conduct,  as  good,  or  fit, 
or  useful.  For  accomplishing  this  end,  it  is  encum- 
bent on  him  to  apply  liimself  to  all  the  principles  of 
action  in  our  nature  ;  to  the  passions  ar:d  to  the  heart, 
as  well  as  to  the  understanding.  But  at  the  former, 
conviction  is  the  great  object.  There,  it  is  not  the 
speaker's  business  to  persuade  the  judges  to  what  is 
good  or  useful,  but  to  show  them  what  is  just  and 
true;  and  of  course  it  is  chiefly,  or  solely  to  the  un- 


the  Bar.  2'i3 

derstandingtliat  his  e'lDquence  ought  to  he  addre.sr.ed. 
The  Speaker  at  the  Bar  addresses  himself  to  one  or  a 
few  Judges,  and  these  too,  persons  generally  of  a.:^e, 
gravity,  and  authority  of   character.     The  Speaker 
who  addresses  a  popular  audience  has  all  the  advan- 
tages, wiiich  a  mixed  and  nuuierous  assembly  aJTord^ 
foreruploying,  to  his  advantage,  all  the  arts  of  Speech- 
The  nature  and  management  of  the  suljjects  which 
belong  to  the  Bar,  require,  therefore,  a  diliercnt  spe- 
cies of  Oratory  from  that  of  popular  assemblies,  both 
in  matter  and  delivery.  In  the  latter  the  Speaker  has 
a  much  wider  range,     lie  is  seldom  confined  to  any 
precise  rule  ;  he  can  fetch  his  topics  from  a  greater 
variety   of  quarters  and  employ  every   illusiratioii 
Avhich  his  fancy  or  imagination  can  suggest.     Here 
lie  is  at  liberty  to  embellish  his  delivery  with  every 
thing  that  is  elegant,  graceful,  and  animated.     But  at 
the  Bar,  the  field  of  speaking  is  limited  to  precise  law 
and  statute.     Imagination  is   not  allowed  to  take  its 
scope.     The  advocate  has  always  Ijefore  him  the  line, 
the  square  and  the  compass.     There  it  is  his  business 
to  be  continually  applying  to  the  sul)jects  under  the 
debate.     His  delivery,  therefore,  is  considerably  cir- 
cumscribed, when  compared  Avitli  that  of  the  popular 
orator.   It  should  be  adapted  to  the  nature  of  his  com- 
position, accurate,  precise  and  iaipressive.     The  an- 
cients took  a  m'jCii   larger  range  in  their  pleadings 
than  tlie  moderns.    The  judicial  Orations  of  Demost- 
henes and  Cicero  are,  therefore,  not  exact  models  of 
the  manner  of  speaking  vvliich  is  adapted  to  the  pre- 
sent state  of  the  Bar.  For  altliough  these  were  plead- 
ings spoken   in  civil  or  criminal  causes,  }et,  in  fact, 
the   nature  of  tlie  Bar  ancitntly,  both  in  Greece  a!id 
Rome,  allowed  a  much  nearer  a})proacii  ^o  Popula?- 
Eloquence,   thin   wiiat  it   now  does.     This  will  evi- 
dently appear  from  the  different  specimens  of -incicnS. 
and  modern  pleading  M'hich  are  annexed, 
■  '      V  2 


'MG  r.logucnce  f>J 

SECTIOiN  I. 

J' a  Ill's  defence  before  Jgrippti. 

CnARACT£RISTICS. 

.^mjirrsvive  dignify — aufal  elevation — sul/lbpe  enthn- 
siiisni — solemn,  but  decisive  fortitude.  The  etc- 
knod'lcdgnicnt  of  former  habits  of  persecution  should 
be  marked  nith  a  tone  and  manner  expressive  of  in- 
gc7iH0!is,  but  by  no  means  abject  contrition.  The 
recapitulation  of  the  ivords  of  the  heavenly  vision, 
demands  the  mingled  expressions  of  supernatural 
cu:2,  and  a  restrained,  but  conscious  exultation 

I  iHiN'K  iTjyself  happy,  king  Agrippa,  because  I 
shall  answer  for  myself  this  day  before  thee,  touching 
all  llie  things  whereof  I  am  accused  of  the  Jews  ;  es- 
perialiy  because  I  know  thee  to  he  expert  in-all  cus- 
toms and  cjuestions  which  are  among  the  Jews  ;  where- 
of I  beseech  thee  to  hear  me  patiently. 

My  manner  of  life  fropj  my  youth,  v/hich  was  at  the 
first  among  my  own  nation  at  Jerusalem,  know  all  the 
Jews,  who  knew  pje  from  the  beginning,  if  they  would 
testif}',  tiiat  after  the  most  rigorous  sect  of  our  reli- 
gion, I  lived  a  Pharisee.  And  now  I  stand  and  ara 
judged  for  the  hope  of  the  promise  made  of  God  un- 
to our  fathers  ;  unto  which  promise  our  twelve  tribes, 
instantly  serving  God  day  and  night,  liope  lo  come. 
For  this  hope's  sake,  king  Agrippa,  I  am  accused  of 
the  Jews.  VVhy  sJiould  it  he  thought  a  tiling  incredi- 
ble to  you,  that  God  should  raise  the  dead  ?  I  verily 
thought  with  myself,  that  I  ought  to  do  many  things 
contrary  to  tlie  name  of  Jesus  of  Nazareth  ;  which 
things  1  also  did  in  Jerusalem  -,  and  many  of  the  saints 
did  shut  up  in  prison  ;  and  when  they  were  put  to 
death  I  gave  my  voice  against  them  ;  and  I  punished 
them  oft  in  every  synagogue,  and  compelled  them  to 
blaspheme;  and  being  exceedingly  mad  against  them, 
I  persecuted  them  even  unto  strange  cities. 


the  Bar.  24J 

Wlieretipon  as  I  went  to  Damascus,  with  authority 
tind  coramission  from  the  chief  priests,  at  mid  day,  O 
Jving!  I  saw  in  the  way  a  Jight  from  lieaven,  above 
the  brightness  of  the  sun,  shinina:  round  about  me, 
and  them  that  journeyed  with  me.  And  wlien  we 
were  all  fallen  to  earth,  I  heard  a  voice  speaking 
unto  me  and  saying  in  the  Hebrew  tongue,  "  Saul, 
Saul,  why  persecutes!  thou  rae  ?  It  is  hard  for  thee  to 
kick  against  the  goads."  And  I  said,  "  Who  art  thou, 
lord?"  And  J:e  said,  "lam  Jesus,  M'hom  thou  per- 
secutest  ;  but  arise,  and  stand  upon  thy  feet;  for  I 
have  appeared  unto  thee  for  this  purpose,  to  make 
thee  a  minister,  and  a  witness  both  of  these  things 
tliou  hast  seen,  and  of  those  things  in  the  which  I  will 
appear  unto  thee  ;  delivering  thee  from  this  people, 
and  from  the  Gentiles,  unto  whom  now  I  send  tlice, 
to  open  tlieir  eyes,  and  to  turn  them  from  darkness  lo 
light,  and  from  the  power  of  Satan  ttiito  God  ;  that 
they  may  receive  forgiveness  of  sins,  and  inheritance 
among  them  which  are  sanctified  by  faith  that  is  in 
me."  Whereupon,  O  king  Agrippa  !  I  was  not  diso- 
bedient unto  tiie  lieavenly  vision,  l>ut  slicwed  first 
unto  them  of  Damascus  and  at  Jerusalem,  andtlirou'^^h- 
.ont  all  tlie  coasts  of  Judea  ;  and  then  to  the  Gentiles, 
that  they  should  repent  and  turn  to  God,  and  do  works 
meet  for  repentance.  For  these  causes  the  Jews 
caught  me  in  the  temple,  and  went  about  to  kill  me. 
Having  therefore  obtained  help  of  God,  I  continue 
unto  this  day  witnessing  bothtosnnll  and  great,  say- 
ing n(»ne  otlier  4hings  than  those  which  the  prophets 
and  Moses  did  say  should  come, — that  Christ  should 
suffer,  and  that  he  sJiould  be  the  first  tliat  should  rise 
from  the  dead,  and  should  shew  light  unto  this  peo- 
ple, and  tb  the  Gentiles. 

And  as  he  thus  spake  for  liimself,  Festussaid,  with 
a  loud  voice,  "Paul  thou  art  beside  thyself;  much 
learning  doth  make  thee  mad."     But  he  said, — 

I  am  not  mad  most  noble  Fcstus,  but  speak  forth 
the  v/ords  of  truth  and  soberness  :  for  the  king  know- 
cthof  these  things,  before  whom  alsj  1  speak  freely  ; 


21:3  Eloquence  of 

for  r  am  persuaded  that  none  of  thefe  things  are  hid- 
den ftoui  hiiu  ;  for  this  tliing  was  not  done  in  a  corner. 

King  Agrij)pa  I  Ijclievest  thou  the  prophets  ?  I 
know  that  thou  beiievest. 

T{icn  Agrippa  said  unto  Paul.  "  Almost  thou  per- 
suadest  ine  to  be  a  christian."     And  Paul  said, — 

I  would  to  God,  tliat  not  oniy  thou,  but  also  all  that 
hear  me  this  day,  were  both  almost,  and  altogether 
such  as  I  am,  except  these  bonds. 


SECTION  II. 


ScnfencE  passed  by   Jiidge    Wilda,    on   John   Sialcry 

for    the  iii/niman  viurder  of  his  slave,   in  Janu- 

anj,   ISO'J. 

John  Slater,  you  liave  Ijeen  convicted,  l)y  a  Jury 
of  your  country,  of  the  wilful  ir.urder  of  your  own 
slave;  and  I  am  sorry  to  say,  the  short,  inipressive, 
uncontra<^Uctcd  testimon}',  on  which  that  conviction 
vas  founded,  leaves  but  too  little  room  to  doubt  its 
proj)riety. 

The  annals  of  humnn  depravity  mic;Iit  be  safely 
challenged,  for  a  parallel  to  this  unfeeling,  blocd}^, 
and  diabolical  transaction. 

You  caused  your  unofi'enciing,  unresisting  slave, 
to  ])e  bound  hand  and  foot,  by  a  refinement  in  cruel- 
ty, compelled  his  companion,  perhaps,  the  friend  of 
his  heart,  to  chop  oil  his  head  with  an  axe  ;  and  to 
cast  his  body,  yet  convulsed  with  the  agonies  of 
death,  into  the  water!  And  this-deed  you  dared  to 
perpetrate  iu  the  harbour  of  Charleston,  within  a 
few  yards  of  the  shore,  nnblushingly  in  the  face  of 
open  day. 

Had  your  murderous  arm  been  raised  against  your 
equal,  whom  the  iaws  of  self-defence,  and  t!ie  more 
eiiicacious  iaws  of  the  land,  unite  to  protect,  your 


the  Bar.  240 

erijiie  would  nut  Jiave  l)etn  without  precedent,  an<l 
would  have  scejned  kss  horrid.  Your  personal  risque 
would  at  least  have  proved,  that  though  a  murderer, 
you  were  no  coward.  But,  30U  too  well  knew,  tha»t 
this  unfortunate  man,  whom  chance  bad  subjected 
to  your  ^-aprice  had  not,  like  yourself  chartered  to 
him  hy  the  laws  of  the  land,  the  sacred  rights  of 
nature  ;  and  that  a  stern  but  necersary  policy,  had 
disarmed  hiiu  of  the  rights  of  self  defence  :  Too 
well  you  knew,  that  to  you  alone  lie  could  look  for 
l)rotection,  and  that  your  arm  alone  could  shield  him 
from  insult,  or  avenge  his  wrongs  ;  yet  that  arm  you 
cruelly  stretched  out  for  his  destruction. 

The  counsel,  who  generously  volunteered  his  ser- 
vices in  your  behalf,  shocked  at  the  enoriiiiiy  of  your 
oiTence,  cndea\ourcd  to  find  a  refuge,  as  well  for  his 
own  feelings,  as  fi)r  those  of  all  vvlio  heard  your  trial, 
in  a  derangcmenl  of  your  intel'vCl.  Several  w  itnts- 
ses  were  examined  to  establish  this  fact,  but  the  re- 
sult of  their  testimony,  it  is  apprehended,  was  as 
little  satisfactory  to  his  mind,  as  to  those  of  the  Jury, 
to  whom  it  v.as  addressed  :  1  sincerely  wish  this 
defence  had  proved  successful  ;  not  from  any  desire 
to  save  you  from  the  punishment  which  awaits  you, 
ftiid  which  you  so  richly  merit  ;  but  frorii  the  desire 
of  saving  my  country  from  the  foul  reproacl;,  of  ha- 
vinq;  in  its  bosom  so  great  a  monster. 

From  the  peculiar  situation  of  tliis  country,  our 
fathers  felt  tiiemselves  justified,  in  sulijscting  to  a 
\trj  slight  punishment,  the  man  wlio  murders  a  slave  ; 
Whether  the  present  state  of  society  requires  a  conti- 
iiuatio;i  of  this  policy,  so  opposite  to  the  apparent 
rights  of  humanity,  it  remains  for  a  suhsequeni  legis- 
lature to  decide.  Their  attention,  v.ould  long  ere 
this,  have  been  directed  to  this  subject  ;  but,  for  the 
honour  of  human  nature,  such  hardened  sinners  as 
yourself,  are  rarely  found,  to  disturb  the  repose  of 
society  ;  the  grand  Jury  of  this  district,  deeply  im- 
pressed with  your  daring  outrage  against  the  laws 
both  of  God  and  Man,  made  a  vtry  strong  ts|)res- 


250  Elojnence  of 

sion  of  their  feelings  on  ^his  subject  to  the  legislature ; 
and  from  the  wisdom  and  justice  of  that  body,  the 
friends  of  humanity  may  confi<ieiitly  hope  soon  to  see 
this,  blackest  in  the  catalogue  of  human  crinies,  pur- 
sued with  appropriate  i)uiii.shment. 

In  proceeding  to  pass  the  sentence,  which  the  law 
provided  for  your  ofience,  I  confess,  I  never  felt 
more  forcibly  the  want  of  power,  to  make  respected 
the  laws  of  my  country,  whose  minister  1  am.  You 
]iave  already  .violated  the  majcst}'  of  those  laws, — 
you  have  profanely  pleaded,  the  law  under  which  you 
stand  convicted — as  a  justification  of  your  crime 
— you  liave  held  that  law  in  one  hand,  and  brandish- 
ed your  bloody  axe  in  the  other,  impiously  contend- 
ing that  the  one  gave  a  licence  to  the  unconstrainecl 
use.  of  the  other. 

But  though  you  will  go  ofl' unhurt  in  person  by  the 
present  sentence,  expect  not  to  escape  \viih  impunity: 
your  bloody  deed  has  set  a  mark  upon  you,  which  \ 
fear  the  good  actions  of  your  life  will  not  efface. 
You  w  ill  [)t  held  in  abhorrence  by  an  impartial  world, 
and  shunned  as  a  monster  by  every  honest  man — your 
unoHendiiig  posterity  will  be  visited  for  your  iniqui- 
ty, hy  the  si  igma  of  deriving  their  origin  from  an  un- 
feeling murderer your  days  ■wiiich  will  l)e  few, 

will  be  spent  in  wretcliedness  ; — and,  if  your  con- 
science is  not  sieeied  against  every  virtuous  emotion  \ 
if  you  be  not  entirely  abandoned  to  hardness  of  lieart, 
the  mangled,  mutilated  corpse  of  your  murdered 
slave  ^uIl  ever  be  present  in  your  imagination  :  ob- 
truding itself  into  ail  your  amusements,  and  haunting 
you  in  the  house  of  silence  and  repose. 

But  should  you  not  regard  the  reproaches  of  an 
offended  world  ;  should  yon  I)ear  with  callous  insen- 
sibility, the  gnav.  ing  of  a  guilty  conscience  ;  yet  re- 
niemljer !  I  charge  you  remember  I  that  an  awful 
period  is  fast  approaching,  arid  with  you  is  close  at 
liand,  when  you  must  appear  before  a  tribunal,  whose 
want  of  power  can  afford  you  no  prospect  of  im- 
punity ;  Avhen  you  must  raise  your  bloody  hands  at  the 


the  Bar.  2b  i 

bar  of  an  impartial,  omnipotent  jadj^e  !  Remember  ? 
I  pray  you  reinemher  !  wJiilst  you  liave  time,  that 
God  is  just,  and  that  Lis  vengeance  will  not  sleep  for 
ever ! 


SECTION  III. 

Speech  dictated  hij  Doctor  Johnson  in  defence  of  a 
school-master^  in  Scotland^  charged  ivith  severity 
in  the  chastisement  of  his  scholars^  who  had  been 
deprived  of  his  office  by  an  inferior  ccntrt,  and  af- 
terwards restored  by  the  court  of  Session  ;  the 
court  considering  it  to  be  dangerous  to  the  interests 
of  /ec.rning  and  education,  to  lessen  the  dignity  of 
teachers,  and  mahe  them  afraid  of  too  indulgent  pa- 
rents, instigated  by  the  complaints  cf  their  children  ; 
which  ivas  appealed  against  by  his  enemies  to  the 
house  of  Lords. 

Ti/K  charge  is,  that  he  has  used  immoderate  and 
cruel  correcTion  : — Correction  in  itself  is  not  cruel  ; 
yet  as  good  tilings  becuiue  evil  by  excess,  correction, 
by  being  immoderate,  may  become  cruel.  But  when 
is  correction  immoderate  ?  When  is  it  more  frequent 
or  more  severe  than  is  required  for  reformation  and 
instruction  ?  No  severity  is  cruel  wliicli  o.')slinacy 
makes  necessary  ;  for  the  greatest  cruelty  would  be 
to  desist,  and  feave  the  scholar  too  careless  for  in- 
struction, and  too  much  hardened  for  reproof.  Locke, 
in  his  treatise  on  education,  mentions  a  mother,  with 
applause,  who  corrected  her  child  e i.^iit  times  before 
she  subdued  it ;  for  had  she  stopped  at  the  seventh 
act  of  correction,  her  daughter,  says  he,  would  have 
been  ruined. 

The  degrees  of  obstinacy  in  young  minds  are  very 
different ;  as  different  must  be  tlie  degrees  of  perse- 
vering severity.     A  stubborn  scholar  must  be  cor- 


252  IJlo^ucrc  of 

reeled  li!l  lie  is  snb;]ticd.  The  discipline  of  a  school 
is  military.  Tlicrc  must  he  either  u>i';oanded  licence, 
cr  absolute  autiinrity.  The  master,  who  punishes, 
not  only  consults  the  future  happiness  of  him  who  is 
Xhc  iniracdiite  su"  ject  of  correction,  but  propagates 
cl)cJicnce  through  the  whole  school  ;  and  establish- 
es regularity  f)y  exemplary  justice.  The  victorious 
obstinacy  of  a  single  i)oy  would  make  his  future  cn- 
<leavours  of  reformation  or  intsruction  totally  itien'ec- 
tual.  Obstinacy,  therefore,  must  never  be  victori- 
ous. Yet  it  is  well  known,  that  there  sometimes  oc- 
curs a  sullen  and  hardy  resolution,  that  langl-.s  at 
all  common  degrees  of  pain.  Correction  nmst  l;e 
proportioned  to  occasions.  The  flexible  will  be  rc- 
ibi'med  by  g'^n.tle  discipline,  and  the  refractory  must 
be  snbdacd  by  iiarsher  metl^ods.  The  degrees  of 
scholastic,  as  of  military  punishment,  no  stated  rules 
c^n  ascertain.  It  must  be  enforced  till  it  overpowers 
tcrapiaticn  ;  till  stuoborncss  becomes  tlexible,  and 
perverseness  regular. 

Custom  and  reason  Lave,  indeed,  set  some  bounds 
to  scholastic  penalties.  The  scboolmaster  inflicts  no 
capital  pu'iishments  ;  nor  enforces  his  edicts  by  ei- 
ther death  or  oiutilation.  The  civil  law  has  wisely 
dctcrmiu.'d,  that  a  master  who  strikes  at  a  scholar's 
tye  shall  be  consiJered  as  criminal.  But  punish- 
ments, however  severe,  that  produce  no  lasting  evil, 
may  be  just  and  reasonable,  because  they  may  be  ne- 
cessary. Such  have  1,'een  the  punishments  used  by 
the  respondent.  No  scholar  has  gone  from  him  ei- 
ther blind  or  lame,  or  with  any  of  his  limbs  or  po\\'ers 
ii;  i  u'td  or  inipaired.  Tliey  were  irre:';ular,  and  he 
pu::shcd  them:  they  were  (d)stinate,  and  he  enforced 
Ills  pnuLliincnt.  But,  hov/ever  provoked,  he  never 
exceeded  the  limits  of  moderation,  for  he  inflicted  no- 
thing be3'-ond  present  pain  :  and  how  much  of  that  was 
required,  no  man  is  so  little  able  to  determine,  as  those 
wlio  have  deteraiiiied  against  him  ; — the  parents  of 
tlis  oflcuders.  It  has  been  said,  that  he  used  nnpre- 
cedcclcd  a:-;d  improper   instruments    of  correction. 


the  Bar.  2.33 

Of  this  accusation  !lie  meaning  is  not  \try  easy  to  be 
fouDcl.  No  instrument  of  correction  is  more  proper 
than  another,  hut  as  it  is  better  adapted  to  produce 
present  pain  ^vithout  lasting  mischief.  Whatever 
were  his  instruments,  no  lasting  mischief  has  ensued; 
and  therefore,  however  unusual,  in  hands  so  cautious 
they  were  proper. 

In  a  place  like  Campbell-town,  it  is  easy  for  one  of 
the  principal  inhabitants  to  make  a  parly.  It  is  easy 
for  that  party  to  heat  themselves  with  imaginary  grie- 
vances. It  is  easy  for  them  to  opj)ress  a  man  poorer 
than  themselves  ;  and  natural  to  assert  the  dignity  of 
riches,  by  persisting  in  o])pression.  The  argument 
which  attempts  to  prove  the  impropriety  of  restoring 
the  respondent  to  the  school,  by  alleging  that  he  has 
lost  the  confidence  of  the  people,  is  not  the  subject  of 
juridical  consideration  ;  for  he  is  to  suffer,  if  he  must 
suffer,  not  for  their  judgment,  but  for  his  own  actions. 
It  may  he  convenient  for  them  to  have  another  master, 
but  it  is  a  convenience  of  their  own  making.  It  would 
be  likewise  convenient  for  him  to  find  another  sc])ool ; 
but  this  convenience  he  cannot  obtain. — The  Cjuestion 
is  not  what  is  now  convcmmt,  but  uhat  is  generally 
right.  If  the  people  of  Campbell-town  be  distressed 
by  the  restoration  of  the  respondent,  they  are  distress- 
ed only  by  their  own  fault ;  by  turbulent  passions  and 
unreasonable  desires  ;  by  tyranny,  which  law  has  de- 
feated, and  by  malice,  which  virtue  has  surmounted. 


SECTION  IV. 


Fart  of  the  speech  of  the  honourable   Thomas  fnoio 
lord  J    Ers/dne,  for  the  prosecution  against    IViL- 
Hams,  publisher  of  l-'aine's  Age  of  Ecason, 
Grntlemen. 

Mow  any  man  can  rationally  vindicate  the  publi- 
cation of  such  a  book,  in  a  country  where  the  chris- 

W 


2.3  i  Eloquence  of 

tian  religion  is  llie  very  foundation  of  the  law  of  tbc 
land,  I  am  totally  at  a  loss  to  conceive,  and  have  no 
ideas  for  the.  discussion  of!  How  is  a  tribunal,  whose 
whole  jurisdiction  is  founded  upon  the  solemn  be- 
lief and  practice  of  what  is  denied  as  falsehood, 
and  reprobated  as  irapiety,  to  deal  with  such  an  anom- 
alous defence  ?  Uj^on  what  principle  is  it  even  offer- 
ed to  the  court  Mhor.e  authority  is  contemned  and 
mocked  at  ?  If  the  religion  proposed  to  be  called  in 
question,  is  not  previously  adopted  in  belief  and  so- 
lemidy  acted  upon,  what  authority  has  the  court  to 
pass  any  judgment  at  all  of  acc^uittal  or  condemnation? 
IJnder  what  sanction  are  the  witnesses  to  give  their 
evidence,  without  wliich  there  can  be  no  trial  ?  Un- 
der v.hat  oblijralions  can  1  call  upon  you,  (the  jury 
representing  your  country,)  to  administer  justice! 
Surely  upon  no  other  than  that  you  are  sworn  to  ad- 
minister it  under  the  oaths  you  have  taken. 

The  whole  judicial  fabric  from  the  king's  sovereign 
authority  to  the  lowest  office  of  magistracy,  has  no 
other  foundation.  The  whole  is  built  both  in  form 
and  substance,  upon  tlie  same  oath  of  every  oi.e  of 
its  ministers,  to  do  justice,  as  Gcd  shall  help  tb.em 
Jiereafter.  What  God  ?  and  what  hereafter  ?  That 
God  undoubtedly,  who  has  comm.anded  kings  to 
rule,  and  judges  to  decree  justice  ;  who  has  said  to 
witnesses  not  only  by  the  voice  of  nature,  but  in  re- 
vealed commandments — thou  sbait  not  bear  false  tes- 
timony against  thy  neighbour  ;  and  who  has  enforced 
obedience  to  them  by  the  revelation  of  the  unuttera- 
ble blessings  which  shall  attend  their  observances, 
and  the  awful  punishments  which  shall  await  upon 
their  transgressions. 

But  it  seems,  this  is  an  age  of  reason, and  the  time 
and  the  persons  are  at  last  arrived,  that  are  to  dissi- 
pate the  errors  which  have  overspread  the  past  gene- 
rations of  ignorance.  The  believers  in  Christianity 
are  many,  but  it  belongs  to  tlie  few  that  are  wise  to 
correct  their  credulity.  Belief  is  an  act  of  reason, 
and  superior  reason  may,  therefore,  dictate  to  the 
weak. 


the  Bar.  255 

In  runnini^  llie  mind  along  tlie  long  list  of  sincere 
antl  devout  christians,  I  cannot  help  lamenting  that 
Newton  had  not  lived  to  this  day,  to  have  had  his 
shallowness  filled  up  with  this  new  flood  of  light. — 
But  the  subject  is  too  awful  for  irony.  I  will  speak 
plainly  and  directly.  Newton  was  a  christian  !  New- 
ton, whose  rniiul  hurst  forth  from  the  fetters  cast  by 
nature  upon  our  finite  conccj)tions — Newton,  wliose 
science  was  truth,  and  the  foundation  of  whose  know- 
ledge of  it  was  philosophy  ;  not  fiiose  visionary  and 
arrogant  presuu^jtions  which  too  often  usurp  its  name, 
but  philosophy  resting  on  the  basis  of  mathematics, - 
Avhich,  like  figures,  cannot  lie — Newton,  who  carried 
the  line  and  rule  to  the  utmost  barriers  of  creation, 
and  explored  the  principles  by  wliich,  no  doubt,  all 
created  matter  is  held  together  and  exists,  liut  this 
extraordinary  man,  in  the  mighty  reich  of  his  raind, 
overlooked,  perhaps,  the  errors  which  a  minuter  in- 
vestigation of  the  created  things  on  this  earth  might 
liave  taught  I)im,  of  the  essence  of  his  Creator. 

What  shall  then  be  said  of  the  great  Blr.  Boyle, 
^ho  looked  into  the  organic  structure  of  all  matter, 
even  to  the  brute  inanimate  substances  which  the  foot 
treads  on  ?  Sucii  a  man  may  be  supposed  to  have  been 
eCj[ually  qualified  with  Mr.  Paine  to  look  up  through 
nature  to  nature's  God.  Yet  the  result  of  all  his  con- 
templations was  the  most  confirmed  and  devout  belief 
of  all  which  the  other  holds  in  contempt,  as  despica- 
ble and  drivelling  superstition  — But  this  error  might, 
perhaps,  arise  from  a  want  of  a  due  attention  to  the 
foundations  of  human  judgment,  and  the  structure 
of  that  understanding  uhich  God  has  given  us  for  the 
investigation  of  truth — Let  that  question  be  answer- 
ed by  Mr.  Locke,  who  was,  to  the  highest  pitch  of 
devotion  and  adoration,  a  cliristian.  Mr.  Locke,  whose 
office  was  to  detect  the  errors  of  thinking,  by  going 
up  to  the  foundation  of  thought,  and  to  direct  into 
the  proper  track  of  reasoning  the  devious  mind  of 
man,  by  shewing  him  its  whole  process,  from  the 
first  perceptions  of  sense  to  the  last  ceiiclasluns  of  r^i  • 


2oS  Lloqucncc  of 

liocination,  piitlinq^  a  rein  heskles  upon  false  opinion, 
hy  practical  rules  for  the  conduct  of  human  judgment. 
But  these  men  were  on'y  deep  thinkers,  and  lived  in 
their  closets,  unaccustomed  to  the  traffic  of  the  world, 
and  to  the  laws  which  practically  regulate  mankind. 
Gentlemen  !  in  the  place  where  we  now  sit  to  ad- 
minister the  justice  of  this  great  country,  above  a 
century  ago,  the  never  to  be  forgotten  sir  Matthew 
Hale  })resided;  whose  faith  in  Christianity  is  an  exalted 
commentary  upon  its  truth  and  reason,  and  whose  life 
was  a  glorious  example  of  its  fruits  in  man,  adminis- 
tering human  justice  with  a  wisdom  and  purity  drawn 
fro  n  the  pure  fountain  of  the  christian  dispensation, 
which  has  been,  and  will  be,  in  all  ages  a  subject  of 
the  highest  reverence  and  admiration.  But  it  is  said 
by  t!ie  author  that  the  christian- faille  is  but  the  tale  of 
the  more  ancient  superstitions  of  the  world,  and  may 
be  easily  detected  by  a  proper  understanding  of  the 
mythologies  of  the  heathens.  Did  JMilton  under- 
stand those  mythologies?  Was  he  less  versed  than 
IMr.  Paine  in  the  superstitions  of  the  world  ?  No, 
they  were  the  subject  of  liis  immortal  song  ;  and 
though  shut  out  from  all  recurrence  to  them,  he  pour- 
ed theru  forth  from  the  stores  of  a  memor}^  rich  with 
all  tliat  man  ever  knew  ;  and  laid  tliem  in  their  order 
as  th.e  illustration  of  that  real  and  exalted  faith,  the 
unquestionable  source  of  that  fervid  genius,  which 
cast  a  sort  of  shade  upon  all  the  other  works  of  man — 
♦'  He  passed  the  I)ounds  of  flaming  space, 
Where  angels  trenible  while  tliey  gaze  ; 
He  sa'.v  till  blasted  with  excess  of  light, 
He  closed  his  eyes  in  endless  light." 
But  it  was  the  light  of  the  body  only  tliat  was  ex- 
tinguished: "  The  celestial  light  shone  inward,  and 
enabled  him  to  justify  the  ways  of  God  to  man." — 
The  result  of  his  thinking  was  nevertheless  not  the 
same  as  the  author's.  The  mysterious  incarnation  of 
our  blessed  Saviour  (wliich  this  work  blasphemes  in 
wordT  so  wholly  unfit  for  the  mouth  of  a  christian,  or 
for  t'le  ear  of  a  court  of  justice,  that  T  dare  net,  and 


the  Bar.  257 

will  not,  give  them  utterance)  Milton  made  the  grand 
conclusion  of  the  Paradise  Lost,  the  rest  of  his  finish- 
ed labours,  and  the  ultimate  hope,  expectation,  and 
glory  of  the  world. 

Thus  you  find  all  that  is  great,  or  wise,  or  splen- 
did, or  illustrious,  amongst  created  beings  ;  all  the 
minds  gifted  beyond  ordinary  nature,  if  not  inspired 
l)y  its  universal  author  for  the  advancement  and  dig- 
nity of  the  world,  tliough  divided  by  distant  ages, 
and  by  the  clashing  opinions,  distinguishing  them 
from  one  another,  yet  Joining  as  it  were  in  one  sub- 
lime chorus,  to  celebrate  the  truths  of  Christianity,  and 
laying  upon  its  lioly  altars  the  never-fading  offerings 
of  their  immortal  wisdom. 


SECTION  V. 

ON    THE  CHAll.VCTER     OF    A  JUDGE. 

Extract  from    Mr.   Martiii's  speech  in  the  trial  of 
Judge  Chase. 

Before  judge  Chase  went  from  Baltimore,  to  hold 
the  circuit  court  at  Richmond,  he  knew  that  the  sedi- 
tion law  had  been  violated  in  Virginia.  I  had  myself 
put  into  his  hands,  The  Prospect  Before  Us.  He 
felt  it  his  duty  to  enforce  the  laws  of  his  countr^^ 
What,  sir,  is  a  jiidge  in  one  part  of  the  United  States, 
to  permit  the  breach  of  our  laws  to  go  unpunished, 
because  they  are  there  unpopular,  and  in  another  part 
to  carry  them  into  execution,  because  there  they  may 
be  thought  wise  and  salutary  ?  And  would  you  real- 
ly wish  your  judges,  instead  of  acting  from  princi- 
l)Ie,  to  court  only  the  applause  of  their  auditors  ? 
Would  you  wish  them  to  be  what  sir  Micliael  Foster 
has  so  correctly  staled,  the  most  contemptible  of  all 
characters,  popular  Judges  :  Judges  who  look  for- 
W2 


258  Eloquence  of 

ward  ill  all  llicjir  decisions,  not  for  the  applause  oi* 
the  wise,  and  good  ;  of  their  own  consciences  ;  of 
tlieir  God  ;  hut  of  the  rabble,  or  any  prevailing  par- 
ly ?  I  flatter  myself  that  this  honourable  senate  will 
never,  by  their  decision,  sanction  such  principles. — 
Our  government  is  not,  as  we  say,  tyrannical,  nor 
acting  on  whim  or  caprice.  We  boast  of  it  as  beinr^ 
a  government  of  laws.  But  how  can  it  be  such,  unless 
the  laws,  while  tiiey  exist,  are  sacredly  and  impartial- 
ly^ without  regard  to  popularity,  carried  into  execu- 
tion ?  What  sir,  shall  judges  discriminate  ?  Shall  tliey 
1)6  permitted  to  say,  "  this  Jaw  I  will  execute,  and 
that  I  will  not  ;  because  in  the  one  case  T  may  be  be- 
nehted,  in  the  other  I  might  make  myself  enemies  ?" 
And  would  you  really  Avish  to  live  under  a  govern- 
ment where  your  Jaws  were  thus  administered  ? 
Would  you  really  wish  for  such  unprincipled,  such 
time-serving  judges  ?  No,  sir,  j'ou  would  not.  You 
will  with  me  say,  "Give  me  the  judge  who  will  firm- 
ly, boldly,  nay,  even  sternly,  perform  his  duty,  equal- 
ly uninfluenced,  equally  uuinlinu'dated  by  the  "  7;j- 
stonfis  vultus  tyranni,"  or  the  "  ardor  civium  prava 
jubenliura  !'' — Such  are  the  judges  we  ought  to  have  ; 
such  I  hope  loc  have  and  shall  have.  Our  properly^ 
our  liberty,  our  lives,  can  only  be  protected  and  secured 
by  suchjialgcs.  With  this  honorable  court  it  lemai ns. 
whether  \\c  shall  have  such  judges  ! 


SECTION  VI. 

BUER    AND    BlENNERHASSETT. 

Extract  from  the  speech  of  Mr.   Wirt,  on  the  trial  of 
Aaron  Burr  for  high  treason. 

A  PLAIN  man  who  knew  nothing  of  the  curious 
transmutations  which  the  wit  of  man  can  work,  would 
be  very  apt  to  wonder  by  what  kind  of  legerdemain 


the  Bar.  259 

Aaron  Burr  had  contrived  to  sliUiTlc  liiaiself  down  to 
(he  bottom  of  the  pack  as  an  accessory,  and  turn  up 
poor  IJIcnnerJiassclt  as  j)rincipal  in  this  treason.  It 
i3  an  lionour,  1  daresay,  for  which  Mr.  Blenncrhassett 
is  by  no  means  anxious  ;  one  wliich  he  has  never 
disputed  with  Colonel  Burr,  and  which  I  am  persuad- 
ed, he  would  be  as  little  inclined  to  dispute  on  this 
occasion  as  on  any  other.  Since,  however,  the  mod- 
esty of  Colonel  Burr  declines  the  first  rank,  and  seems 
disposed  to  force  Mr.  Blenncrhassett  into  it  in  spite 
of  ids  blushes,  let  us  compare  the  cases  of  the  two 
men  and  settle  this  question  of  precedence  between 
them.  It  may  save  a  good  deal  of  troublesome  cere- 
mony hereafter. 

In  making  this  comparison,  sir,  I  shall  speak  of  the 
two  men  and  of  the  part  they  bore  as  I  believe  it  to 
exist  and  to  be  substantially  capable  of  proof;  although 
the  court  has  already  told  us,  that  as  this  is  a  motion 
to  exclude  all  evidence,  generally,  we  have  a  right,  in 
resisting  it,  to  suppose  the  evidence  which  is  behind, 
strong  enough  to  prove  any  thing  and  every  thins^ 
corapatable  with  the  fact  of  Burr's  absence  from  the 
island.  If  it  will  be  more  agreeable  to  the  feelings  of 
the  prisoner  to  consider  the  parallel  which  I  am  about 
to  run,  or  rather  the  contrast  which  I  am  about  to  ex- 
hibit, as  a  fiction,  he  is  at  liberty  to  do  so;  I  believe 
it  to  be  a  fact. 

Who  then  is  Aaron  Burr,  and  what  the  part  which 
lie  has  borne  in  this  transaction  ?  He  is  iis  author;  its 
projector  ;  its  active  executor.  Bold,  ardent,  restless 
and  aspiring,  his  brain  conceived  it;  his  hand  brought 
it  into  action.  Beginning  his  operations  in  New- 
York,  he  associates  with  him,  men  whose  wealth  is 
to  supply  the  necessary  funds.  Possessed  of  the 
main  spring,  his  personal  labour  contrives  all  the  ma- 
chinery. Pervading  the  continent  from  New- York 
to  New-Orleans,  he  draws  into  his  plan  by  every  al- 
lurement which  he  can  contrive,  men  of  all  ranks,  and 
all  descriptions.  To  youthful  ardour  he  presents 
danger  and  glory  ;  to  ambition,  rank  and  titles  and 


2Gd  Eloquence  of 

honours  ;  to  avarice  the  mines  of  Mexico.  To  each 
person  whom  he  addresses,  he  presents  tlie  object  a- 
dapted  to  his  taste:  his  recruiting  officers  are  appoint- 
ed ;  men  are  engaged  throughout  the  continent ;  civil 
life  is  indeed  quiet  upon  its  surface  ;  but  in  its  bosom 
this  man  has  contrived  to  deposit  the  materials  which 
M'ilh  the  slightest  touch  of  his  match  produces  an  ex- 
plosion to  shake  the  continent.  AH  this  his  restless 
amhition  has  contrived  ;  and  in  the  autumn  of  1806, 
he  g(ies  forth  for  the  last  time,  to  apply  this  match, — 
On  this  excursion  he  meets  with  Blennerhassett. 

Who  is  Blennerhassett  ?  A  native  of  Ireland,  a  man 
of  letters,  who  fled  from  the  storms  of  his  own  coun- 
try to  find  quiet  in  ours.  His  history  shews  that  war 
is  not  the  natural  element  of  his  mind  ;  if  it  had  been, 
he  would  never  have  exchanged  Ireland  for  America. 
So  far  is  an  army  from  furnishing  the  society  natural 
and  proper  to  Mr.  Blennerhassett's  character,  that  on 
his  arrival  in  America,  he  retired  even  from  the  popu- 
lation of  the  Atlantic  Slates,  and  sought  quiet  and 
solitude  in  the  Ixjsom  of  our  western  forests.  But 
he  carried  with  him  taste  and  science  and  wealth  ; 
and  "  lo,  the  desert  smiled.''  Possessing  himself  of 
a  beautiful  island  in  tlie  OJjio,  he  rears  upon  it  a  pal- 
ace and  decorates  it  with  every  romantic  embellish- 
ment of  fancy.  A  shrubbery  that  Shenstone  might 
liave  envied,  blooms  around  him  ;  music  that  might 
have  charmed  Calypso  and  her  nymphs,  is  his  ;  an  ex- 
tensive library  spreads  its  treasures  before  liim  ;  a 
philosophical  apparatus  oilers  to  him  all  the  secrets  and 
mysteries  of  nature  ,  peace,,tranquiility  and  innocence 
shed  their  mingled  delights  around  him  ;  and  to  crown 
the  enchantment  of  the  scene,  a  wife,  who  is  said  to  be 
lovely  even  beyond  her  sex,  and  graced  with  every  ac- 
complishment that  can  rentier  it  irresistible,  liad  bles- 
sed him  with  her  love  and  made  him  the  father  of 
her  children.  The  evidence  would  convince  you,  sir, 
that  this  is  but  a  faint  picture  of  the  real  life. 

In  the  midst  of  all  this  peace,  this  innocence,  and 
this  tranquillity,  this  feast  of  tlie  mind,  this  pure  ban- 


the  Bar,  2&1 

qnet  of  the  heart — the  destroyer  comes — ]ie  comes  to 
turn  this  paradise  into  a  hell — yet  tlie  flowers  do  not 
M'ither  at  his  approach  and  no  monitory  shuddering 
throui^h  the  bosom  of  their  unfortunate  i)ossessor, 
warns  him  of  the  ruin  tliat  is  coming  upon  him.  A 
stranj^er  presents  himstlf.  Introduced  to  tlieir  civil- 
ities by  the  high  rank  which  he  had  lately  held  in  his 
country,  he  soon  finds  his  way  to  Ihtir  hearts  l.y  tlie 
dignity  and  elegance  of  his  demeanor,  the  light  and 
beauty  of  his  conversation,  and  the  setluctive  and  fas- 
cinating power  of  his  address.  The  conquest  was 
not  a  difficult  one.  Innocence  is  ever  simple  and 
credulous  ;  conscious  of  no  designs  itself,,  it  suspects 
none  in  others  ;  it  wears  no  guards  before  its  Jjreast ; 
every  door  and  portal  and  avenue  of  the  licart  is 
tiirown  open,  and  all  who  choose  it  enter.  Such  was 
llie  state  of  Eden,  when  the  serpent  entered  its  bow- 
ers. 

The  prisoner  in  a  more  engaging  form,  winding 
liiinself  into  the  open  and  unpractised  heart  of  the  un- 
fortunate Blennerhassett,  found  hut  little  difficulty  in 
changing  the  native  character  of  that  heart  and  the 
objects  of  its  afl'ection.  By  degrees  he  infuses  into  it 
tiie  poison  of  his  own  ambition  ;  he  breathes  into  it 
t  he  fire  of  his  own  courage  ;  a  daring  and  a  dcsr-erate 
thirst  f  )r  glory  ;  an  ardor  panting  for  all  the  storm  and 
bustle  and  hurricane  of  life.  In  a  short  time  the 
whole  man  is  changed,  and  every  o'lject  of  his  former 
delight  relinquished.  No  more  he  enjoys  the  tran- 
quil scene  ;  it  has  become  flat  and  insipid  (o  his  taste: 
liis  books  are  a!)andoned  ;  his  retort  and  crucible  are 
thrown  aside  ;  his  shrubbery  blooms  and  breathes  its 
fragrance  upon  the  air  in  vain — he  likes  it  not  ;  his  ear 
no  longer  drinks  the  rich  melody  of  music  ;  it  longs 
for  the  trumpet's  clangor  and  the  cannon's  roar  ;  even 
the  prattle  of  his  bal  es,  once  so  sweet,  no  longer  af- 
fects him  ;  and  the  angel  smile  of  his  wife,  which  hith- 
erto touched  his  bosom  with  ecstacy  so  unspeakuljle, 
is  now  unfelt  and  unseen.  Greater  oTgfcls  have  taken 
possession  of  his  soul— his  imagination  has  been  da/> 


262  Eloquence  of 

zled  by  visions  of  diadems,  and  stars  and  garters  and 
titles  of  nobility  :  he  has  been  taught  to  burn  "witli 
restless  emulation  at  the  names  of  Cromwell,  Csesar, 
and  Bonaparte,  His  enchanted  island  is  destined 
soon  to  relapse  into  a  desert  •,  and  in  a  few  months, 
we  find  the  tender  and  beautiful  partner  of  his  bosom, 
whom  he  lately  "  [)ermitted  not  the  v.inds  of''  sum- 
mer "  to  visit  too  roughly,"  v/e  find  her  shivering, 
at  raidniglit,  on  the  winter  banks  of  the  Ohio,  and 
mingling  her  tears  with  the  torrents  that  froze  as  they 
fell.  Yet  this  unfortunate  man,  thus  deluded  from 
his  interest  and  his  happiness — thus  seduced  from 
the  paths  of  innocence  and  peace — thus  confounded 
in  the  toils  which  were  deliberately  spread  for  him, 
and  overwhelmed  by  the  mastering  spirit  and  genius 
of  another — this  man,  thus  ruined  and  undone,  and 
made  to  play  a  subordinate  part  in  this  grand  drama 
of  guilt  and  treason — this  man  is  to  be  called  the  prin- 
cipal offender  ;  while  he,  by  whom  he  was  thus  plun- 
ged and  steeped  in  misery  is  comparatively  innocent, 
— T.  mere  accessory. 

Sir,  neither  the  human  heart  nor  the  human  under- 
Stiindlng  will  bear  a  perversion  so  monstrous  and  ab- 
surd ;  so  shocking  to  the  soul  ;  so  revolting  to  rea- 
son. O  !  no  sir.  There  is  no  man  who  knows  any 
thing  of  this  affair,  wlio  does  not  know  that  to  every 
body  concerned  in  it,  Aaron  Burr  v.-as  as  the  sun  to 
the  planets  which  surround  him  ;  he  bound  them  in 
their  respective  orbits,  and  gave  them  Iheir  Jight, 
their  heat  and  their  motion.  Let  him  not  then  shrink 
from  the  high  destination  which  he  has  courted  ;  and 
having  already  ruined  Dleniicrhassett  in  fortune,  cha- 
racter and  happiness  forever,  attempt  to  finish  the 
tragedy  by  thrusting  ti^at  ill-fated  man  between  Jiim- 
self  and  punishment. 


the  Bar.  263 

SECTION  YIl. 

The   oration  of  JEschhics  aga'.mt  Dciuosihcncs,  on  the 
crown. 

In  such  a  situation  of  alFairs,  and  in  sucli  disor- 
der, as  you  yourselves  arc  sensible  of,  tlie  ouly  me- 
thod of  saving  the  ^vrccks  of  government,  is,  if  I 
mistake  not,  to  allow  full  lil-erty  to  accuse  tliose  who 
have  invaded  your  laws.  But  if  you  sliut  them  up, 
or  suller  others  to  do  this,  I  propliecy  tliat  you  will 
fall  insensibly,  and  that  very  soon  under  a  tyrannical 
power.  For  you  know,  Athenians,  that  govcrnmeat 
is  divided  into  three  kinds  ;  monarchy,  oligarchy, 
and  democracy.  As  to  the  t\vo  former,  ihey  arc  gov- 
erned at  the  will  and  pleasure  of  those  \Uio  reign  in 
either  ;  whereas  established  laus  only,  reign  in  a  pop- 
ular state.  I  make  these  observations,  therefore, 
that  none  of  you  may  he  ignorant,  I^ut  on  the  contra- 
ry, that  every  one  may  he  entirely  assured  that  the 
day  he  ascends  the  seat  of  justice,  to  examine  an  ac- 
cusation upon  the  invasion  of  the  laws,  that  very  day- 
he  goes  to  give  judgment  upon  his  own  independence. 
And,  indeed,  the  legislature,  who  is  convinced  that 
a  free  state  can  support  itself  no  longer  than  the  laws 
govern,  takes  particular  care  to  prescribe  this  forni 
of  an  oath  to  judges,  "  I  will  judge  according  to  the 
laws." 

The  remembrance,  therefore,  of  this  being  deeply 
implanted  in  your  minds,  must  inspire  you  with  a 
just  abhorrence  of  any  persons  whatsoever  who  dare 
transgress  them  by  rash  decrees  ;  and  that  far  from 
ever  looking  upon  a  trangression  of  this  kind  as  a 
small  fault,  you  always  consider  it  as  an  enormous 
and  capital  crime.  Do  not  sufler,  then,  any  one  to 
make  you  depart  from  so  wise  a  principle — But  as,  in 
the  army  every  one  of  you  would  be  ashamed  to 
quit  the  post  assigned  him  by  th.e  general  ;  so  leit 
every  one  of  you  be  this  day  ashamed  to  abandon  the 
post  which  the  laws  have  given  you  in  the  common- 


2C4  Elorjucnce  of 

wealth.     W]iat  post  ? — that  of  protectors  of  the  gov- 
ernment. 

IMiist  we  in  your  person  crown  the  author  of  the 
pu])!ic  calamities,  or  must  we  destroy  hiiu  ?  And, 
Jndcedj  what  unexpected  revolutions,  what  unthought 
of  catastrophes  have  we  not  seen  in  our  days  ? — The 
lung  of  Persia,  that  king  who  opened  a  passage 
through  Mount  Athos  ;  who  bound  the  Hellespont  in 
chains  ;  who  was  so  iaiperious  as  to  command  the 
Greeks  to  acknuu ledge  him  sovereign  both  of  sea 
and  land:  who  in  his  letters  and  dispatches  presumed 
lo  style  himself  the  sovereign  of  the  world  from  the  ri- 
sing to  the  setting  of  the  sun  ;  fights  now,  not  to  rule 
over  the  rest  of  mankind,  but  to  save  his  own  life. 
Do  not  we  see  those  very  nun  who  signalized  their 
zeal  in  the  belief  of  Delphi,  invested  both  with  the 
glory,  for  which  that  powerful  king  was  once  so  con- 
spicuous, and  with  the  title  of  the  ciuef  of  the  Greeks 
against  him?  As  to  Thebes,  which  borders  upon  At- 
tica, have  we  not  seen  it  disappear  in  one  day  from  the 
midst  of  Greece? — And  with  regard  to  the  unhappy 
Lacedamonians,  what  calamities  have  not  befallen 
Them  only  for  taking  but  a  small  part  of  the  spoils  of 
the  temple. 

Thcj'  who  formerly  assumed  a  superiority  over 
Greece,  are  they  not  now  going  to  sen(l  ambassadors 
to  Alexander's  court ;  to  bear  the  name  of  hostages 
in  his  train  ;  to  become  a  spectacle  of  misery  ;  to 
bow  the  knee  before  the  monarch;  submit  themselves 
and  their  country  to  his  mercy  ;  and  receive  such 
Jaws  as  a  concjueror,  they  attacked  first,  shall  think 
fit  to  prescribe  them  ?  Athens  itself,  the  common  re- 
fuge  of  the  Greeks?  Athens,  formerly  peopled  with 
ambassadors,  who  flocked  to  claim  its  almighty  protec- 
tion, is  not  this  city  now  obliged  to  fight,  not  to  obtain 
a  superiority  over  the  Greeks,  but  to  preserve  itself 
from  destruction?  Such  are  the  misfortunes  which 
Demosthenes  has  brought  upon  us,  since  his  intermed- 
dling with  the  administration. ^ 


the  Bar.  265 

Imagine  tlien,  Athenians,  when  he  shall  Invite  the 
confidants  and  accomplices  of  his  abject  psnldy  to 
range  themselves  around  him,  towards  the  close  of 
]iis  harangue;  imac^ine  then,  Athenians,  on  your  side, 
that  you  see  the  ancient  benefactors  of  luis  common- 
wealth drawn  up  in  battle  array,  round  this  rostrum 
where  I  am  now  speak in^^,  in  order  to  repulse  that 
audacious  band.  Ima.q;ine  you  hear  Solon,  who 
strengthened  the  popular  government  by  such  excel- 
lent laws  ;  that  philosopher,  that  incomparable  legis- 
lator, conjuring  you  with  a  gentleness  and  modesty 
becoming  his  character,  not  to  set  a  higher  value  up- 
on Demosthenes'  oratorical  flourishes  than  upon  your 
oaths  and  your  laws. 

Imagine  you  hear  Aristides,  who  made  so  exact  and 
just  a  division  of  the  contributions  imposed  upon  the 
Greeks  for  the  common  cause  :  that  sage  dispenser, 
who  left  no  other  inheritance  to  his  daughters,  but 
the  public  gratitude,  which  was  their  portion;  irna- 
gine,  I  say,  you  hear  him  bitterly  bewailing  the  out- 
rageous manner  in  which  we  trample  upon  justice,  and 
speaking  to  you  in  these  words.  VVhat !  because  Arth- 
niius,  of  Zeilia,  that  Asiatic,  who  passed  through 
Athens,  where  he  even  enjoyed  the  riglits  of  hospital- 
ity, had  brought  gold  from  the  3\Iedes  into  Greece  ; 
your  ancestors  were  going  to  send  him  to  the  place  of 
execution,  and  banislied  him,  not  only  from  their  city, 
but  from  all  the  countries  dependent  on  them  ;  and 
will  not  you  blush  to  decree  Demosthenes,  who  has 
not,  indeed,  brought  gold  from  the  Modes,  but  has  re- 
ceived such  sums  of  money  from  all  parts  to  betray 
you,  and  now  enjoys  the  fruits  of  his  treasures  ;  will 
not  you,  I  say,  blush  to  decree  a  crown  of  gold  to 
Demosthenes  ?  Do  you  thiiik  thdt  Themistc^cles,  and 
tne  heroes  who  were  killed  in  the  battles  of  Marathon 
and  Platea,  do  you  think  the  very  tomlir.  of  your  an- 
cestors will  not  send  forth  groans,  if  you  crov/n  a  mail 
who,  by  his  own  confession,  has  been  Tor  ever  conspi- 
ring with  i)arbariaTi3  to  ruin  Greece  I 

X 


2GG  Bloqiiencc  of 

As  to  myself,  O  earth  !  O  sun  J  O  virtue  !  and  you 
■who  are  the  springs  of  true  discernment,  lights  both 
natural  and  acquired,  by  which  we  distinguish  good 
from  evil, —  1  call  you  to  witness,  that  I  have  used 
all  my  endeavours  to  relieve  the  state,  and  to  plead 
lier  cause.  I  could  have  wished  my  speech  had  been 
eqaul  to  the  greatness  and  importance  of  the  subject : 
at  least,  I  can  flatter  myself  with  having  discharged 
my  duty,  according  to  my  abilities,  if  I  have  not  done 
it  according  to  my  wishes.  Do  you,  Athenians,  from 
the  reasons  you  have  h  eard,  and  those  which  your 
•wisdom  Avill  suggest,  do  you  pronounce  such  a  judg- 
K2ent,  as  is  conformable  to  strict  justice,  and  the 
common  good  demands  from  you. 


SECTION  YIII. 

Emmefs  Vindication. 


I  AM  asked  if  I  have  any  thing  to  say  why  sea- 
-tence  of  death  should  not  be  pronounced  upon  me. 
Was  I  to  suffer  only  death,  after  being  adjudged  guil- 
4y,  I  should  bow  in  silence — but  a  man  in  my  situation, 
lias  not  only  to  combat  with  the  difficulties  of  for- 
tune, but  also  Avith  the  difficulties  of  prejudice  ;  the 
sentence  cf  the  law  which  delivers  over  his  body  to 
the  executioner,  consigns  his  character  to  o]:!loquy. 
The  man  dies,  but  his  memory  lives,  and  that  mine 
may  not  forfeit  all  claim  to  the  respect  of  my  coun- 
trymen, I  use  this  occasion  to  vindicate  myself  from 
some  of  the  charges  advanced  against  me.  I  am  ac- 
cused of  being  an  emissary  of  France  :  'tis  false  !  I 
am  no  emissar}'  ;  I  do  not  wish  to  deliver  ray  country 
to  any  foreign  power,  and  least  of  all  to  France.  No  ! 
never  did  I  entertain  the  idea  of  establishing  French 
jiowcr  in  Ireland.  I  did  not  create  the  rebellion  for 
France,  but  for  Liberty  ; — God  forbid  !    On  the  coa- 


the  Bar.  207 

trary,  it  is  evident  from  the  introductory  paragraph 
of  the  address  of  the  Provisional  Government,  that 
every  hazard  attending  an  independent  efl'ort  was  dee- 
med preferable  to  the  more  fatal  risk  of  introducing 
a  French  army  into  the  country.  When  the  fluctua- 
ting spirit  of  French  freedom  was  not  fixed  and  bound- 
ed by  tlic  chains  of  a  military  despot,  it  might  have 
been  an  excusable  policy  to  have  souqht  the  assistance 
of  France,  as  was  done  in  the  year  ITOS  ;  then  it  might 
not  have  I)ecn  so  great  a  hazard  to  have  accepted  of 
French  aid  under  a  guaranteeing  treaty,  such  as  Frank- 
lin obtained  for  America.  But,  in  the  present  day, 
could  the  Provisional  Government  have  formed  such 
a  plan,  they  would  have  exhibited  such  a  proof  of 
mental  imbecility,  as  to  unfit  them  for  the  common. 
offices  of  Vik,  Small  would  be  our  claims  to  patriot- 
ism and  to  sense,  and  palpable  our  aflectation  of 
the  love  of  liberty,  if  we  were  to  encourage  the  pro- 
fanation of  our  shores  by  a  people  who  are  slaves 
tliemselves,  and  the  unprincipled  and  abandoned  in- 
struments of  imposing  slavery  on  otliers.  If  such 
an  inference  is  drawn  irom  any  part  of  the  Proclama- 
tion of  the  Provisional  Goverment,  it  caluranialet? 
their  views,  and  is  not  warranted  by  the  fact.  How 
could  they  speak  of  freedom  to  their  countrymen — 
how  assume  such  an  exalted  motive,  and  meditate 
the  introduction  of  power,  which  has  been  the  ene- 
my of  Freedom  in  every  part  of  tiie  globe?  Review- 
ing the  conduct  of  France  to  other  countries  ;  seeing 
how  she  has  behaved  to  Italy,  to  Holland,  and  to 
Switzerland,  could  u-«!  expect  better  conduct  towards 
us  ?  No  .' — Let  not  then  any  man  attaint  my  memory 
by  believing,  that  I  could  have  hoped  freedojn  through 
the  aid  of  France,  and  betrayed  the  sacred  cause  of 
Liberty,  by  committing  it  to  her  most  determined  foe. 
Neither  let  any  man  hereafter,  abuse  my  name,  or 
jny  principles,  to  the  purpose  of  so  base  and  wicked 
a  delusion.  Oh  !  my  countrymen,  believe  not  those 
who  would  attempt  so  parricidal  an  imposition  upon 
your  understandings.     Deliver  my  country  into  the 


iJGS  Eloquence  of 

liands  of  France  !  What !  meditate  such  a  cruel  as- 
sassination of  her  political  life  !  Had  I  done  so,  I 
liad  not  deserved  to  live;  and  djing  with  such  a 
■^veight  upon  mv  character,  I  had  merited  the  honest 
execration  of  that  country  which  gave  me  birth  and  to 
which  I  wouhl  have  given  freedom.  Had  I  been  in 
Switzerland,  I  would  have  fought  against  the  French, 
for  I  am  certain,  the  Swiss  are  hostile  to  the  French. 
In  the  dignity  of  Freedom,  I  would  have  expired  on 
the  threshold  of  that  country,  and  they  should  have 
entered  it  only  by  passing  over  my  lifeless  corse.  Is 
it,  then,  to  be  supposed,  that  I  should  be  slow  to 
make  the  same  sacrifice  to  my  native  land  ?  Am  I, 
who  lived  but  to  be  of  service  to  ray  country — who 
resigned  for  that  service  the  worship  of  another  idol 
I  adored  in  my  heart,  and  who  would  subject  myself 
to  the  bondage  of  the  grave  to  give  her  independence 
— am  I  to  be  loaded  with  the  foul  and  grievous  ca- 
lumny of  being  an  emmissary  of  France  ? 

My  Lords,  it  may  be  part  of  the  system  of  an- 
gry justice  to  bow  a  man's  mind  by  humiliation  to 
meet  the  ignominy  of  the  scaffold,  but  worse  to  me  than 
the  scaflold's  shame,  or  the  scaflold's  terrors,  would 
be  the  imputation  of  having  been  the  agent  of  PYench 
despotism  and  umbition  ;  and  while  I  have  breath,  I 
M'iil  call  upon  my  countrymen  not  to  believe  me  guil- 
ty cf  so  foul  a  crime  against  their  liberties  and  their 
liappiness.  Though  you,  my  Lord,  sit  there  a 
Judge,  and  I  stand  here  a  culprit — yet,  you  are  but  a 
man,  and  I  am  another  ;  I  have  a  right,  therefore, 
to  vindicate  my  character  and  motives  from  tne  as- 
perGions  of  cahimny  ;  and,  as  a  man  to  whom  fame 
is  dearer  than  life,  I  will  make  the  last  use  of  that 
life  in  rescuing  my  name  and  my  memory  from  the  af- 
flicting imputation  of  having  been  an  emissary  of 
France,  or  seeking  her  interference  in  the  internal  re- 
gulation of  our  affairs.  Did  I  live  to  see  a  French 
army  approach  this  country,  I  would  meet  it  on  the 
shore,  with  a  torch  in  one  hand,  and  a  sword  in  the 
other — I  would  receive  thcra  with  all  the  destruction 


the  Bar.  269 

of  war  ?  I  would  animate  my  countrymen  to  immo- 
late them  in  their  very  boats  before  our  native  soil 
should  be  polluted  Iw  a  foreign  foe.  If  they  succeed- 
ed in  landing,  I  would  burn  every  blade  of  grass 
before  them — raze  every  house — contend  to  the  last 
for  every  inch  of  ground — and  the  last  spot  in  which 
the  hope  of  freedom  should  desert  me,  that  spot 
would  I  make  my  grave!  What  I  cannot  do,  T  leave 
a  legacy  to  my  country,  because  I  feel  conscious  that 
my  death  were  unprofitable,  and  all  hope  of  liberty 
extinct,  the  moment  a  French  army  obtained  footing 
in  this  island." 


SECTION  IX. 


First  part  of  3Ir.  Griji}i's  Speech,  in  the  trial  of 
M.  Livingston,  Esq.  against  J.  Cheethaniy  for  a 
libel,  in  1807. 

The  defendant  (Chcetliani)  stands  convicted  of  the 
serious  offence  of  publishing  against  the  plaintill  (Liv- 
ingston) a  false  and  defamatory  accusation.  And  you 
(gentlemen)  are  the  organ  to  pronounce  the  sentence 
of  violated  law. 

What  damages  will  you  give  ?  This  Hbel,  gentlemen, 
is  not  a  solitary  ebullition  of  passion.  It  is  a  part 
and  parcel  of  a  deliberate  and  extended  system  of  at- 
tack. The  defendant  foretold  that  he  would  wage 
a  "  terrible  warfare"  against  the  plaintiff  :  and  this 
prediction  he  has  indeed  tremendously  accomplished. 
With  a  step  steady  as  time,  and  an  appetite  keen  as 
death,  he  has  been  seen  waging  against  the  plaintiff  a 
warfare,  not  of  conquest,  but  of  extermination.  He 
has  been  seen  opening  on  the  plaintiff  tlie  batteries  of 
the  press.  Yes,  gentlemen,  the  defendant  has  forced 
the  press  to  become  the  disturber  of  domestic  quiet, 
the  assassin  of  private  ruputation.  Our  press,  gentle- 
X  2 


'^"0  Eio</uencc  of 

men,  was  destined  for  other  purposes.  It  was  desti* 
lied  Dot  to  violate,  but  to  protect  the  sanctity  of  private 
rights.  It  was  kindly  ordained  by  a  benificent  prov- 
idence to  inform,  expand  and  dignify  the  public  mind. 
It  was  ordained  the  watchful  guardian,  the  undaunt- 
ed champion  of  liberty : 

Not  that  syren  word  lib- 
erty, which  is  sometimes  used  as  an  ignis  faiuus  to 
allure  mankind  through  the  mire  and  swamps  and 
mountains  and  precipices  of  revolution  •, — but  that 
liberty  which  spreads  the  banners  of  its  protection 
over  man  in  tlie  walks  of  private  life,  and  gives  him 
the  proud  consciousness  of  security  in  the  enjoyment 
of  property,  person  and  character.  It  is  for  these 
high  purposes  our  press  was  ordained  ;  but  the  de- 
fendant has  rendered  it  the  degraded  vehicle  of  foul 
defamation.  Of  this  i  complain,  not  merely  as  coun- 
sel for  the  plaintiff,  but  as  the  humble  advocate  of  my 
country.  This  is  a  crime  against  liberJy  herself.  It 
is  corrupting  her  centinel  \  it  is  debauching  her  vestal. 
There  was  a  time  when  the  press  of  our  country  had 
an  exalted  character  ; — when  at  the  call  of  the  press 
the  American  pulse  beat  high, — when  the  press  was 
capable  of  stirring  the  best  blood  in  American  veins, 

of  rousing  a  nation  to  glorious  enthusiasm, 

of  calling  from  the  plough  the  ploughman,  from  the 
closet  the  scholar,  to  fight  with  a  Washington  and  a 
Hamilton  the  immortal  battles  of  American  indepen- 
dence. Why  had  the  press  this  resistless  influence? 
Because  it  was  then  the  vehicle  of  truth.  But  no\r 
our  press  has  lost  its  character  for  veracity.  The  de- 
mon of  party  has  forced  it  to  become  a  prostitute  in 
the  service  of  licentiousness.  It  requires  the  aveng- 
ing arm  of  a  jury  to  redeem  it  from  its  degradation 
and  restore  it  to  its  pristine  utility  and  grandeur. 

In  his  attack  on  the  character  of  the  plaintiff,  we 
are  constrained  to  admit  that  the  defendant  has  been 
but  too  successful.  VV  l>en  so  much  is  said,  some- 
thing will  be  believed.  Constant  attrition  wsars 
away  the  solid  rock.    But  character,  gentlem^ji,  is 


the  Bar.  27 1 

not  made  of  rock.  It  is  at  once  the  most  valuable 
and  delicate  of  all  human  possessions  :  It  is  tarnished 
even  by  too  much  handlinj^.  The  plaintifl'  has  been 
xvriltcn  down.  Any  man  in  society  may  be  lorittc.i 
doim.  No  man  is  proof  against  the  artillery  of  the 
press.  But  has  it  come  to  this  ?  Shall  the  press  of 
our  country  be  indeed  converted  into  a  tremendous 
engine  for  ivriting  down  character  ?  Why,  gentle- 
men, if  it  is  to  be  thus  prostituted,  instead  of  being 
a  blessing,  it  would  be  a  scourge.  Instead  of  ren- 
dering national  thanksgiving  for  its  institution,  our 
country  ought  to  be  on  bended  knees  in  fervent  sup- 
plication to  heaven  for  its  abolition.  For  it  would 
be  a  scourge,  compared  with  which,  the  inquisitorial 
wheel  and  revolutionary  guillotine  would  be  instru- 
ments of  mercy. 

During  this  assassination  of  his  character,  it  is  not 
to  be  supposed  that  the  mind  of  the  plaintiff  has  been 
at  rest.  Put  yourselves  in  his  situation.  What 
would  be  your  feelings  while  slanders  the  most  vile, 
while  calumnies  the  most  base,  were  circulating  a- 
gainst  you  through  the  medium  of  a  widely  extended 
public  news-paper;  to  be  read  by  your  cotempora.- 
ries — your  friends — and  sneering  enemies  ;  to  de- 
scend to  posterity,  and  be  read  by  your  children  and 
grand  children  ;  to  be  re-published  perhaps  by  some 
future  libeller  when  you  would  be  slumbering  in  your 
graves,  to  the  mortification  and  disgrace  of  your  de- 
scendvints,  who  might  then  be  destitute  of  the  means 
of  detecting  the  calumny  ?  Oh,  gentlemen,  your  hearts 
would  be  tortured  on  the  wheel  of  agonizing  sensi- 
bility. You  would  find  no  balm  in  innocency — no 
physician  there.  What  you  would  suffer,  the  plain- 
tifl' has  suffered.  I  should  think  meanly  of  him  did 
I  suppose  him  capable  of  retiring  from  the  feelings  of 
nature,  and  wrapping  himself  up  in  the  mantle  of  in- 
sensibility. He  this  day  appeals  to  a  jury  of  his 
country.  He  has  a  right  to  demand  of  you,  and  iu 
his  name,  gentlemen,  do  I  solemnly  demand  of  you, 
i\ill  remuneration  for  every  honest  man's  confidence 


272  Eloquence  of 

M'hich  has  been  estranged  from  him,  for  every 
wretched  hour,  for  every  sleepless  night  that  lie  or 
his  may  ^e  presumed  to  have  endured  from  the  cir- 
culation of  this  calumny. 

What  damages  will  you  give?  Look  gentlemen, 
at  the  libel,  it  accuses  the  plaintijT  of  cheating  at 
cards — of  being  detected  in  cheating  at  cards.  It  su- 
peradds to  the  imputation  of  dishonesty,  the  charge 
of  foul  dishonour.  Were  the  plaintiff  accused  of  trea- 
son or  murder,  he  might  arm  himself  with  a  stern  de- 
nial, and  appear  intrepidly  before  the  tribunal  of  the 
public.  But  this  loathsome  charge,  this  rotting  accu- 
sation, this  "pestilence  whicji  walketh  in  darkness" 
deprives  the  unfortunate  accused  even  of  the  misera- 
ble comfort  of  public  denial.  Where  is  this  offence 
charged  to  have  been  committed  ?  At  an  assembly 
room — where  the  fascination  of  music  and  enchant- 
ment of  beauty — the  "  pride,  pomp  and  circumstance 
of  elegant  conviviality  would  elevate  any  man  not  lost 
in  debasement, — the  plaintilf  comes.  He  comes,  not 
to  participate  the  bounties  of  the  temple  of  festivity, 
but  to  profane  its  rites.  With  an  eye  darkly  bent  on 
gain  he  comes — leagued  with  his  brother,  not  in  the 
prosecution  of  some  honourable  enterprise,  but  for  the 
polluted  and  polluting  purpose  of  treacherously  rob- 
bing an  unsuspecting  friend.  Is  the  plaintiff  guilty 
of  this  charge  ?  With  his  standing  in  society,  without 
the  excuse  of  poverty,  or  the  extenuation  of  sordid 
education,  has  he  indeed  sunk  to  this^  Then  he  ought 
to  be  branded  with  a  mark  as  indelible  as  that  stamp- 
ed by  the  hand  of  omnipotence  on  the  forehead  of 
Cain.  The  hiss  of  contempt,  and  murnuir  of  indig- 
nation are  the  music  to  which  he  should  be  forced  to 
march  all  the  days  of  his  life.     But  if  the  plaintiff  is 

innocent and  who  doubts  hisinnocency  ? what 

shall  we  say  of  the  defendant  ?  In  the  solitude  of  the 
closet  he  composed  the  libel.  Deliberately  did  he 
publish  it  through  the  extended  medium  of  the  press. 
lie  commissioned  the'four  winds  of  heaven  to  teil  the 


the  Bar.  273 

tale  of  infamy  to  a  hissing  world.  Nor  was  his  mal- 
ice yet  appeasetl.  Knowing  that  news-i)apers  might 
be  destroyed,  impressions  on  memory  impaired  by 
the  lapse  of  time,  he  stamped  liis  libel  on  the  records 
of  tlie  court.  He  wrote  it  with  a  pen  of  iron  on  ta- 
blets of  marble.  There  it  has  insultingly  remained 
for  months:  there  it  will  remain  forever. 

With  what  apology  does  the  defendant  come  into 
court  ? — He  acknowledges  the  innocency  of  the  plain- 
tiff. After  permitting  his  k)athsome  publication  to 
range  uncontradicted  for  more  than  two  years,  he 
now  comes  forward,  not  with  a  news- paper  recantation 
co-extensive  with  the  circulation  of  the  libel,  but  he 
insults  the  plaintifl'with  a  mere  oral  acknowledgment 
of  his  iiuiocency.  Is  this  extorted  acknowledgment 
to  be  forced  upon  us  as  a  peace-offering  for  past  suffer- 
ings ?  Does  it  eradicate  impressions  on  the  public 
mind?  Can  it  tear  the  libel  from  the  records  of  the 
court  ? — Tliis  death-bed  repentance  will  not  save  him. 
A  jury  can  look  forgivingly  on  the  hunahle  defendant 
who  approaches  in  the  sack-cloth  of  sincere  contrition, 
but  they  frown  with  indignation  at  the  penitence  of 
the  tongue  when  the  heart  is  known  to  he  yet  filled 
with  the  bitterness  of  gall* 

I  am  one  of  those  who  believe  that  the  luart  of  the 
wilful  aud  the  deliberate  libeller  is  blacker  than  that 
of  the  high-way  robber,  or  his  who  com-ai?s  the  crime 
of  midnight  arson.  The  man  vvho  plunders  on  the 
high- way,  may  have  the  semblance  of  an  apology 
for  what  he  does.  An  affectionate  wife  may  (lemand 
subsistence  ;  a  circle  of  helpless  chiklren  raise  to  him 
the  supplicating  hand  for  food.  He  may  he  driven  to 
the  desperate  act  by  the  high  mauflate  of  imperative 
necessity.  The  mild  features  of  the  husband  and  the 
father  may  intermingle  with  those  of  the  rohljcr  and 
soften  the  roughness  of  the  shade.  But  the  rol^btr 
of  character  plunders  that  which  "  not  enrichtth 
him,"  though  it  makes  his  neighbour  "  poor  indeed." 
—The  man  who  at  the  midnight  hour  consumes  his 
iieiglwbour's  duelling,  does  him  an  injury  which  per- 


2r4  Eloquence  of 

haps  is  not  irreparai)le.  Industry  may  rear  another 
habitation.  The  storm  may  indeed  descend  upon 
him  until  charity  opens  a  neighbouring  door:  the 
rude  wind  of  heaven  may  whistle  around  his  uncov- 
ered family.  But  he  looks  forward  to  better  days  : 
he  has  yet  an  liook  left  to  hang  a  hope  on.  No  such 
consolation  cheers  the  heart  of  him  whose  character 
has  been  torn  from  him.  If  innocent  he  may  look, 
like  Anaxagoras,  to  the  Heavens  ;  but  he  must  be 
constrained  to  feci  that  this  world  is  to  him  a  wilder- 
ness. For  whither  shall  lie  go  ?  Shall  he  dedicate 
himself  to  the  service  of  his  country  ?  But  will  his 
country  receive  him?  V/ill  she  employ  in  her  coun- 
cils, or  in  her  armies,  the  man  at  whom  the  "  slow 
unmoving  finger  of  scorn"  is  pointed?  Shall  he  be- 
take himself  to  the  fire-side?  "There,  there^s  the 
rub.''  The  story  of  his  disgrace  will  enter  his  own 
doors  before  him.  And  can  he  bear,  think  you,  can 
he  bear  the  sympathising  agonies  of  a  distressed  wife? 
Can  he  endure  the  formidable  presence  of  scrutini- 
zing, sneering  domestics  ?  Will  his  children  re- 
ceive instruction  from  the  lipsof  a  disgraced  father? 
Gentlemen,  I  am  not  ranging  on  fairy  ground.  I 
am  telling  the  plain  story  of  my  client's  wrongs.  By 
the  ruthless  hand  of  malice  his  character  has  been 
v.autonly  massacred  •, — and  he  now  appears  before  a 
jury  of  his  country  for  redress.  Will  yoa  deny  him 
this  redress  ? — Is  character  valuable?  On  this  point 
I  will  not  insult  you  with  argument.  There  are  cer- 
tain things,  to  argue  which  is  treason  against  nature. 
The  author  of  our  being  did  not  intend  to  leave  this 
point  afloat  at  the  mercy  of  opinion,  but  with  his  own 
hand  has  he  kindly  plaiited  in  the  soul  of  m::n  an  in- 
stinctive love  of  character.  Tliis  high  sentiment  has 
no  affiuity  to  pride.  It  is  the  ennobling  quality  of  the 
soul :  and  if  we  have  hitherto  been  elevated  above 
the  ranks  of  surrounding  creation,  human  nature 
owes  its  ehvation  to  the  love  of  character.  It  is  the 
love  of  character  for  wldcdi  the  poet  has  sung,  the  phi- 
losopher toiled,  th?  hero  bled.     It  is  thQlove  of  char- 


the  Bar.  375 

rncccr  Mhich  wrouglit  mirarles  at  ancient  Greece: 
the  love  of  character  is  the  eagle  on  w  liich  Rome  rose 
to  empire.  And  it  is  the  love  of  character  animating 
the  Jjosom  of  her  sons,  on  which  America  must  de- 
pend in  those  approaching  crisis  that  may  "  try  men's 
souls."  Will  a  jury  weaken  this  our  nation's  hope? 
VVill  they  by  their  verdict  pronounce  to  the  youth 
of  our  country,  that  character  Is  scarce  worth  pos- 
sessing? 

We  read  of  that  philosophy  which  can  smile  over 
the  destruction  of  property — of  that  religion  which 
enables  its  possessor  to  extend  the  benign  look  of  for- 
giveness and  complacency  to  his  murderers.  But  it 
is  not  in  the  soul  of  man  to  bear  the  laceration  of 
slander.  The  philosophy  Avhich  could  bear  it  we 
should  despise.  The  religion  which  could  l.'car  it, 
we  should  not  despise — but  we  shouKl  be  constrained 
to  say,  that  its  kingdom  was  not  of  this  world. 


Second  Part  of  Mr.  GriffnCs  Speech. 

In  a  case  like  the  present,  where  the  jury  have  a 
right,  and  wliere  it  is  their  duty,  to  award  exempla- 
ry damages,  it  becomes  you,  gentlemen,  to  look  a- 
r6und  and  enquire  what  amount  of  verdict  \ht  inte- 
rests of  the  nation  demand,  ^'e  o5!g!?t  to  be  a  hap- 
py people.  Omnipotence  has  exhausted  itself  in 
scattering  blessings  around  us. — I'ut  is  there  no  blot 
on  the  map  of  our  pvosptjity  ?  Yes,  ger.tlemen,  tiicre 
is  a  foul,  a  deadly  blot.  A  fiend  lias  entered  our  po- 
litical Eden  ;— raud  this  fiend  is  the  spirit  of  Iiceviioi;s-' 
ncss.  I  speak  of  the  licentiousness  of  the  to/^guc, 
and  the  licentiousness  of  the  press.  This  is  the  mon- 
ster that  stalks  Ihronch  our  land  "  seeking  v.hon:  ')e 
maj'  devour,"  and  scattering  r.round  him  "  fire  brands 
arrows,  and  death."  He  obtrudes  his  "  miscrtiited 
front"  into  the  hailov.ed  retirements  of  private  life 
■--•beckoas  thi?  ma"ii  of  hcno-ir  to  the  field  of  death — 


27G  Eloquence  of 

tears  tLe  laurel  from  the  brow  of  the  "  warwora"  sol 
(Her — and  wrests  from  the  venerable  patriot  his  hard 
earned  honours.  Innocency  is  no  shield  against  him: 
he  delights  to  sport  on  the  ruins  of  spotless  integrity. 
lie  spares  not  even  the  sanctuary  of  the  grave.  All 
men,  of  all  parties,  groan  under  his  oppression — It 
is  a  melancholy  remark,  but  made,  1  fear,  with  too 
much  correctness,  that  there  is  no  portion  of  the 
globe  where  the  licentiousness  of  the  tongue  and  of 
the  press  has  become  so  outrageous  as  in  these  Uni- 
ted States.  It  is  an  encreasing  evil  amongst  us. 
And  it  feeds  on  the  vitals  of  our  country.  It  has 
driven  into  retirement,  and  will  continue  to  drive  in- 
to retirement,  our  most  estimable  characters,  what- 
ever may  be  their  political  denomination:  for  who 
will  expose  himself  to  the  laceration  of  calumny? 
Individuals  have  i)een  found,  and  individuals  will  a- 
gain  be  found,  who,  for  the  salvation  of  their  coun- 
try, will  expose  themselves  to  death — will  even  court 
it  in  the  "imminent,  deadly  breach."  But  where 
are  the  individuals  who  will  expose  themselves  to  the 
daggers  of  defamation?  This  spirit  of  licentiousness 
vitiates  the  public  sentiment,  and  contaminates  the 
very  mind  of  the  nation.  It  turns  into  wormv/ood 
and  gall  the  benevolent  feelings  of  the  human  heart, 
— makes  man  the  foe  of  man,  and  may  unsheath  the 
sword  of  civil  war-  If  permitted  to  continue,  it  will 
render  our  country  tired  of  freedcmi ;  and  if  free- 
dom must  be  attended  v/ith  this  torrent  of  licentious- 
ness, perhaps  the  sooner  our  country  becomes  tired 
of  it  the  better.  For  "dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in 
my  soul's  just  estimatioii,  prized  a!)ove  all  prire," — 
reputation  is  still  dearer; — 'ind  if  reputation  cannot 
be  preserved  under  the  protection  of  freedom,  our 
countrymen  vdll  seek  shelter,  they  ought  to  seek 
shelter  under  the  strong  arm  uf  despotism — of  that 
despotism  which  palsies  the  tongue  and  fetters  the 
pen.  What  has  destroyed  other  republics  ?  The  ene- 
my was  not  from  without:  the  world  in  arms  could 
never  extinguish  a  nation  of  freemen.     Let  those  who 


the  Bar.  277 

c!oul)t  this,  look  to  the  streiglits  of  Therraopylas. — 
let  them  Jock  to  Baiiker-liill.  The  enemies  of  re- 
publics is  within.  The  destroying  angel  of  freedom 
has  ever  been  the  spirit  of  licentiousness.  Our  na- 
tion must  be  saved  from  thh  spirit,  or  we  are  lost  ; 
shortly  shall  we  follow  to  the  tomb,  the  republics  of 
other  times.  The  friend  of  his  country  looks  around 
hira  and  anxiously  inquires,  what  power  is  there  to 
save  us.  But  one  power  on  earth  can  save  us  ;  and 
that  power  is — a  jury.  If  America  is  to  be  saved 
from  the  fate  of  other  republics,  jurors  must  be  our 
saviours.  Jurors  can  do  more  for  us  than  generals. 
The  heroes  of  the  revolution  created  our  nation  ; — 
it  is  the  high  prerogative  of  jurors  to  preserve  it. 
How  are  they  to  preserve  it?  By  keeping  pure  and 
dignified  the  mind  of  the  nation — by  preserving  un- 
contaminated  its  morality.  If  it  is  asked,  how  does 
the  existence  of  a  nation  of  freemen  depend  on  their 
icarality  ?  I  answer ;  were  men  angsls,  they  would 
scarcely  need  the  form  of  government ; — were  they 
devils,  they  must  be  bound  in  fetters  of  iron  ; 
and  as  they  approximate  the  one  slate,  or  the  oth- 
er, their  government  may  be  free,  or  must  be  se- 
vere. It  is  thine,  virtue,  to  preserve  empires  !  Thou 
hast  ever  been  the  guardian  angel  of  freedom  !  Pre- 
serve pure  and  dignified  the  mind  of  a  nation,  and  its 
body  is  invincible.  It  may  defy  an  armed  world. 
It  is  a  very  Sampson  in  might.  It  is  the  deprava- 
tion of  its  mind  that  severs  the  locks  of  its  strength. 
How  are  jurors  to  preserve  the  morality  of  our  na- 
tion ? — how  arrest  the  devastations  of  licentiousness  ? 
By  their  verdicts  ;  by  writing  upon  the  records  of 
our  courts,  in  legitable  characters,  the  unchangeable 
decree,  that  the  violator  of  character  shall  be  as  sure- 
ly and  severely  punished  by  a  verdict  in  damages 
as  the  violator  of  property  or  of  person.  Were  ju- 
rors in  earnest  to  pursue  this  course,  we  should  find 
that  the  fiend  defamation  would  not  dare  to  stalk  thus 
boldly  through  our  land  ; — the  tongue  cf  slander 
would  be  ooDstrained  to  remain  sileat  :--aiid  fear 

Y 


278  Eloquence  of 

would  hermetically  seal  the  lips  of  calumny.  But 
that  great  vork  is  not  to  be  accomplished  by  trifling 
verdicts.  A  nation  is  not  to  he  saved  by  an  oblation 
of  pence.  Trivial  damages  may  exasperate,  but  can- 
not ititimidale  malice.  The  times  require  exempla- 
ry verdicts — and  mercy  to  individuals  is  treason 
against  the  nation.  This  is  not  the  cause  of  individ- 
ual against  individual  onl}'.  The  nominal  parties  to 
this  suit  dwindle  into  comparative  unimportance ;  and 
the  American  nation  rears  her  august  form,  entreat- 
ing to  be  saved  from  her  Avorst  enemy, — to  be  saved 
from  licentiousness.  This  is  the  cause  of  man 
against  the  worst  passion  of  man  ;  it  is  the  cause  of 
virtue  against  vice.  I  address  mj^self  to  you,  gen- 
tlemen, as  the  grand  inquest  of  the  nation.  I  appeal 
to  you  as  the  Areopagus  of  America.  I  invoke  you 
as  that  only  power  which  can  bind  in  fetters,  and  cast 
out  from  amongst  us,  the  destroying  demon  of  licen- 
tiousness. The  spirit  of  our  beloved  country  looks 
to  you.  You  are  convened  in  the  justly  proud  me- 
tropolis of  the  land  of  freedom.  What  you  are  about 
to  do  will  be  "recorded  as  a  precedent."  In  the  eyes 
of  the  nation,  in  the  eyes  of  a  world,  you  are  this 
day  to  pronounce  the  value  of  American  character. 
The  honour  of  our  city — the  honour  of  the  nation— 
your  own  honour  is  at  stake.  Act  worthy  of  the  dig- 
nity of  your  station — act  worthy  of  yourselves. 


SECTION  X. 

Cicero's  Oration  against  Verrcs. 

An  opinion  has  long  prevailed,  not  only  here  at 
home,  but  likewise  in  foreign  countries,  both  dan- 
gerous to  you,  and  pernicious  to  the  state,  viz.  that 
in  prosecutions,  men  of  wealth  are  always  safe,  how- 
ever clearly  convicted.     There  is  now  to  be  brought 


the  Bar.  279 

upon  his  trial  before  you,   to  the  confusion,  I  hope, 
of  the  propagators  of  this  slanderous  imputation,  one, 
^vhosc  life  and  actions  condemn  him  in   the  opiuioa 
of  all  impartial  persons  ;  but  who,  according  to  his 
own   reckoning,   and  declared  dependence  upon  his 
riches,  is  already  acquitted  ;   I  mean  Caius  Verres. 
1  have   undertaken  this    prosecution  (fathers)  at  the 
general  desire,  and  with  the  great  expectation   of  the 
Roman  people,  not   that  I   might   draw   ^wvy  U])oii 
that  illustrious  order  of  which  the  accused  happens  to 
be  ;  but  with  the  direct  design  of  clearing  your  jus- 
tice and  impartiality  before  the  world.      For  I  have 
brought  upon  his  trial,  one,  whose  conduct  has  been 
such,  that,  in  passing  a  just  sentence  upon  him,  you 
will  have  an  opportunity  of  re-establishing  the  credit 
of  such  trials ;    of  recovering  whatever  may   be  lost 
of  the  favor  of  the  Roman  people  ;  and  of  satisfying 
foreign  states  and  kingdoms   in  alliance  with  us,  or 
tributary  to  us.     I  demauil  justice  of  you  (lathers) 
upon  the  robber  of  the  public  treasury,  the  oppressor 
of  Asia  Minor  and   Pamphilia,    the    invader  of  the 
rights   and   privileges   of  Romans,  the  scourge  and 
curse  of  Sicily.     If  that  sentence  is  passed  upon  him 
which  his  crimes  deserve,  your  authority  will  be  ven- 
-erabie  and  sacred  in  the  eves  of  the  public.     But  if 
his  great  riches  should  bias  you  in  his  favour,  I  shall 
still  gain  one  point,  viz.  to  make  it  apparent  to  all  the 
M'orh?,  that  what   was  wanting  in  this  case  was  not 
a  criminal  nor  a  prosecutor  ;  but  just  ice,  and  adequate 
punishment. 

For,  as  those  acts  of  violence,  hy  which  he  has  got 
his  exorbitant  riclies,  were  done  openly,  so  have  his 
attempts  to  pervert  judgment,  and  escape  due  pun- 
ishment, been  public,  ancl  in  open  defiance  of  decenc}'. 
He  has  accordingly  said,  that  the  only  time  he  ever 
was  afraid,  was  when  he  found  the  prosecution  com- 
menced against  him  by  me  ;  lest  he  should  not  have 
time  enough  to  dispose  of  a  sufficient  number  of  pre- 
sents in  proper  hands.  Nor  Jias  he  atteaipted  to  se- 
cure himself  by  the  legal  way  of  defence  upon  his 


2E0  Eloquence  of 

trial.  And,  indeed,  where  is  the  learning,  the  elo- 
t'jueDce,  or  the  art,  which  would  be  suilicieut  to  qual- 
ify any  one  for  the  defence  of  him,  whose  whole 
life  has  been  a  continued  series  of  the  most  atrocious 
orimes?  To  pass  over  the  shameful  irregularities  of 
liis  youth,  what  does  his  qusstorship,  the  first  pub- 
lic employment  he  held,  what  does  it  exhibit,  but  one 
continued  scene  of  villanies;  Cneius  Carbo  plunder- 
ed of  the  public  money  by  his  own  treasurer  ;  a  con- 
sul stripped  and  betrayed  ;  an  army  deserted  and  re- 
duced to  wsnl;  a  province  robbed;  the  civil  and  re- 
ligious rights  of  a  pcopie  violated.  The  eraploy- 
ment  he  held  in  Asia  Minor  and  Panrphylia,  what  did 
it  produce,  but  the  ruin  of  those  countries ;  in  which 
Jjouses,  cities,  and  temples  where  roI)bed  by  him. 
There  he  acied  over  again  t!ie  scene  of  his  qujestor- 
ship,  bringing^  by  his  had  j)ractices,  Cneius  Dolabel- 
Ja,  whose  substitute  he  was,  into  disgrace  with  the 
people,  and  then  deserting  him  ;  not  only  deserting, 
but  even  accusing  and  betraying  him.  What  was  his 
conduct  in  his  prajtorship  here  at  home?  Let  the 
plundered  temples,  and  public  works  neglected,  that 
lie  might  embezzle  the  money  intended  for  carrying 
them  on,  bear  witness.  How  did  he  discharge  the  of- 
fice of  a  judge  ?  Let  those,  who  suffered  by  his  injus- 
tice, answer.  But  his  prastorship  in  Sicily,  crowns 
all  his  works  of  wickedness,  and  finishes  a  lasting 
monument  to  his  infamy.  The  mischiefs  done  by 
him  in  that  unhappy  country,  during  the  three  years 
of  his  iniquitous  administration,  are  such,  that  ma- 
ny years  under  the  wisest  and  best  of  praetors,  will 
not  be  sufficient  to  restore  things  to  the  condition,  in 
which  he  found  them.  For  it  is  notorious,  that  du- 
ring the  time  of  his  tyranny,  the  Sicilians  neither  en- 
joyed the  protection  of  their  own  original  laws,  of 
the  regulations  made  for  their  benefit  by  the  Roman 
senate,  upon  their  coming  under  the  protection  of  the 
commonwealth,  nor  of  the  natural  and  unalicnabl'» 
rights  of  men.  No  inhabitant  of  that  ruined  coun- 
try has  been  al)tc  to  keep  possession  of  any  thing,  biu 


the  Bar,  281 

what  has  either  escaped  the  rapaciousness,  or  been 
neglected  by  the  satiety  of  that  universal  plunderer- 
His  nod  has  decided  all  causes  in  Sicily  for  these  three 
years.  And  his  decisions  have  broke  all  law,  all  pre- 
cedent, all  right.  The  sums  he  has,  by  arbitrary  tax- 
es, and  unheard-of  impositions,  extorted  from  the 
industrious  poor,  are  not  to  be  computed.  The  most 
faithful  allies  of  the  commonwealth  have  been  trea- 
ted as  enemies.  Roman  citizens  have,  like  slaves, 
been  put  to  death  with  tortures.  The  most  atrocious 
criminals,  for  money,  have  been  exempted  from  the 
deserved  punishments  ;  and  men  of  the  most  unex- 
ceptionable characters  condemned  and  banished  un- 
heard. The  harbours,  though  sufficiently  fortified, 
and  the  gates  of  strong  towns,  opened  to  pirates  and 
ravagers.  Tlie  soldiery  and  sailors,  belonging  to  a 
province,  under  the  protection  of  the  commonwealth, 
starved  to  death.  Whole  fleets,  to  the  great  detri- 
ment of  the  province,  sufl'ered  to  perish.  The  an- 
cient monuments  of  either  Sicilian  or  Roman  great- 
ness, the  statues  of  heroes  and  princes  carried  off; 
and  the  temples  stripped  of  their  images.  And  these 
his  atrocious  crimes  have  been  committed  in  so  pub- 
lic a  manner,  that  there  is  no  one,  who  has  heard 
of  his  name,  but  could  reckon  up  his  actions. 

Now,  Verres,  I  ask  what  you  have  to  advance  a- 
gainst  this  charge  ?  Will  you  pretend  to  deny  it  ?  Will 
you  pretend,  that  any  thing  false,  that  even  any  thing 
aga:ravated  is  alleged  against  you  ?  Had  any  prince, 
or  any  state,  committed  the  same  outrage  against  the 
privileges  of  Roman  citizens,  should  we  not  think  we 
had  sufficient  ground  for  declaring  immediate  war  a- 
gainst  them  ?  What  punishment  ought  then,  to  be 
inflicted  upon  a  tyrannical  and  wricked  prjetor,  who 
dared  at  no  greater  distance  than  Sicily,  within  siglit 
of  the  Italian  coast,  to  put  to  the  infamous  death  of 
crucirixiou,  that  unfortunate  and  innocent  citizen, 
Publius  Gavius  Cosanus,  only  for  his  having  asserted 
Y3 


282  Eloquence  of 

his  privilege  of  citizenship,  and  declared  his  inten- 
tion of  appealing  to  the  justice  of  his  country  against 
a  cruel  oppressor,  \?ho  had  unjustly  confined  him  in 
prison  at  Syracuse,  from  whence  he  had  just  made 
his  escape?  The  unhappy  man  arrested,  as  he  was 
•going  to  embark  for  his  native  country,  is  brought  be- 
fore the  wicked  prastor.  With  eyes  darting  fury, 
and  a  countenance  distorted  with  cruelty,  he  orders 
the  helpless  victim  of  his  rage  to  be  stripped  and  rods 
to  be  brought ;  accusing  him,  but  without  the  least 
shadow  of  evidence,  or  even  of  suspicion,  of  hav- 
ing come  to  Sicily  as  a  spy.  It  was  in  vain,  that 
the  unhappy  man  cried  out,  "  I  am  a  Roman  citizen, 
T  have  served  under  Lucius  Pretius,  who  is  now  at 
Fanormus,  and  will  attest  my  innocence."  The 
bloodthirsty  pra3tor,  deaf  to  all  he  could  urge  in  his 
own  defence,  ordered  the  infamous  punishment  to  be 
inflicted.  Thus,  fathers,  was  an  innocent  Roman 
citizen  publicly  mangled  with  scourging  ;  whilst  the 
only  words  he  uttered  amidst  his  cruel  sufferings, 
were,  "  I  am  a  Roman  citizen."  With  these  he  ho- 
ped to  defend  himself  from  violence  and  infamy. 
13ut  of  so  little  service  was  this  privilege  to  him,  that 
Avhile  he  was  thus  asserting  his  citizenship,  the  or- 
der was  given  for  his  execution — for  his  execution 
upon  the  cross  ? 

0  liberty  ! — O  sound  once  delightful  to  every  Ro- 
man ear  ! — O  sacred  privilege  of  Roman  citizenship  J 
Once  sacred !  now  trampled  upon  ! — But  what  then  ! 
Is  it  come  to  this?  Shall  an  inferior  magistrate,  a 
governor,  who  holds  his  whole  power  of  the  Roman 
people  in  a  Roman  province,  within  sight  of  Italy, 
bind,  scourge,  torture  with  fire  and  red  hot  plates  of 
iron,  and  at  last  put  to  the  infamous  death  of  th^ 
cross,  a  Roman  citizen?  Shall  neither  the  cries  of 
innocence  expiring  in  agony,  nor  the  tears  of  pitying 
spectators,  nor  the  majesty  of  the  Roman  common- 
wealth, nor  the  fear  of  the  justice  of  his  country,  re- 
strain the  licentious  and  waiiton  cruelty  of  a  monster, 


\ 


the  PnlpiL  283 

who,  in  confidence  of  his  riches,  strikes  at  the  root 
of  liberty,  and  sets  mankind  at  defiance? 

I  conclude  witli  expressing  my  hopes,  that  your 
wisdom  and  justice,  fathers,  will  not,  by  suffering  the 
atrocious  and  unexampled  iHsoIencc  of  Caius  Verres 
to  escape  the  due  punishment,  leave  room  to  appre- 
hend the  danger  of  a  total  subversion  of  authority, 
and  introduction  of  general  anarchy  and  confusion. 


CHAP.  III. 

Eloquence  of  the  Pulpit, 

SECTION  I. 

Remarks  on  Pulpit  Eloquence. 

Eloquence  is  the  art  of  speaking  with  prbpriety, 
elegance, and  eflect.  To  enlighten  the  understanding, 
please  the  imagination,  move  the  passions, and  influ- 
ence the  will,  are  the  important  ends  it  proposes  to  ac- 
complish. The  darkness  which  envelopes  the  human 
understanding  must  be  dispelled  by  a  clear  exhibi- 
tion of  truth. — A  combination  of  noble  images  pre- 
sented to  the  mind,  in  the  rich  or  agreeable  colouring 
of  a  finely  finished  picture,  tends  to  swell  the  imagina- 
tion with  vast  conceptions,  and  transport  the  soul 
with  sublime  ideas.— The  creative  faculty,  from  her 
exuberant  stores,  produces  those  expressive  figures, 
and  exhil)its  these  vivid  feautures,  which,  when  asso- 
ciated with  objects  of  desire  or  aversion,  love  or  ha- 
tred, pity  or  contempt,  awaken  the  liveliest  sensibility 
and  precipitate  the  passive  assembly,  into  all  the  per- 
turbatiou  of  passion.'-Would  the  ©rator  not  only  agi- 


284  Eloquence  of 

tate  the  soul,  and  inspire  generous  feelins:,  but  pro- 
duce volition,  and  propel  to  action,  he  must  employ 
an  artful  mixture  of  the  truths  which  convince,  and 
the  imagery  which  interests  ;  he  must  incorporate  ar- 
gumentation with  [jathos,  and  the  eiTorts  of  reason 
with  the  ebullitions  of  passion,  before  he  can  force 
his  way  to  the  heart,  and  wield  at  will  its  active 
powers. 

The  eloquence  of  the  pulpit  possesses  advantages 
peculiar  to  itself.  The  dignity  and  importance  of 
its  subjects  tend  to  solemnize  Christian  assemblies,  and 
ought  to  interest  every  heart.  The  preacher  has  lib- 
erty and  leisure  to  chuse  his  theme,  and  appears  in 
public  with  all  the  advantages  of  mature  preparation. 
The  largeness  and  solemnity  of  his  audience  inspire 
animation,  and  powerfully  prompt  to  exertion.  His 
style  may  be  embellished  with  the  highest  ornaments, 
and  his  delivery  adorned  with  all  the  variegated  gra- 
ces of  action. 

Canflidatcs  for  the  sacred  ministry  should  possess 
good  natural  talents:  a  clear  understanding,  to  dis- 
criminate truth  from  error  ;  a  lively  imagination,  to 
open  extensive  fields  of  thought,  and  exhibit  interest- 
ing objects  in  the  most  advantageous  points  of  view; 
a  retentive  memory,  to  which  he  may  commit  the 
different  sets  of  ideas,  and  the  various  parts  of  know- 
ledge he  collects  in  the  course  of  his  study,  and  may 
have  occasion  to  use  in  the  discharge  of  his  duty  ;  and 
an  original  gift  of  utterance,  to  fit  him  for  speaking 
with  freedom  and  fluency,  on  any  subject  which  he 
thoroughly  understands.  Without  a  considerable 
share  of  such  inestimable  talents,  I  may  venture  to 
affirm,  all  the  learning  and  industry  in  the  world  will 
be  unal)le  to  render  him  an  eloquent  preacher. 

Besides  the  possession  of  these  natural  and  neces- 
sary qualities,  much  remains  to  be  acquired  by  stud^ 
and  observation  :  An  extensive  knowledge  of  natural 
and  revealed  religion  ;  of  the  theory  and  practice  of 
moral,  relative,  and  religious  duties  ;  of  the  doctrines 


the  Ihilpit,  2S5 

of  £;racc,  the  practice  of  piety,  and  pure,  experimental 
godliness:  A  comprehensive  knowledge  of  the  scrip- 
tures in  their  connection,  depciidance,  and  leading  de- 
sign ;  of  the  meaning  and  application  of  particular 
passages  ;  of  the  principal  idea  contained  in  every  text 
he  undertakes  to  illustrate,  and  of  the  best  method  of 
dividing,  explaining  and  impressing  the  instructions 
deduced  from  it,  on  the  hearts  of  his  hearers  :  An  in- 
timate acquaintance  with  the  opinions,  passions,  and 
propensities  of  mankind  ;  the  various  scenes  and  cir- 
•cumstances  through  which  they  pass,  the  motives  by 
•which  they  are  most  easily  actuated,  and  the  avenues 
which  lead  most  direct iy  to  the  heart ;  with  the  char- 
acters, sentiments  and  humours,  which  prevail  among 
the  people  he  is  destined  to  address. 

The  preacher  must  be  acquainted  with  ])Ooks  as 
well  as  with  men.     The  clearest   commentaries   on 
scripture,  and  the  most  judicious  systems  of  divinity 
should  hold  the  highest  rank  ia  his  estimation  ;  but 
such  as  possess  sublime  moral  sentiments,  unfold  the 
obligations,  characters,  and  connections  of  men,  ex- 
plain the  principal  sciences  with  elegance  and  accura- 
cy, inspire  the  brightest  train  of  thought, enrich  tlie 
soul  with  exalted  perceptions,  improve  the  taste  for 
composition,  give  a  compass  and  purity  of  expression, 
and  afford  materials  for  forming  a  stile,  in  which  sim- 
plicity and  grandeur,  elegance  and  chastity,  animation 
and  ease,  copiousness  and  perspicuity,  harmoniously 
unite  ; — are  also  entitled  to  a  frequent  and  attentive 
perusal.     Every  book  of  real  merit,  indeed,  may  con- 
tribute to  assist  him  in  his  official  capacity,  but  such 
as  contain  the  best  precepts  and   specimens  of  elo- 
quence which  either  ancient  of  modern  times  have 
produced,  should  be  selected  with  judgment,  studied 
with  diligence,  digested  by  mature  reflection,  and  ren- 
dered subservient  to  the  great  ends  of  the  gospel-min- 
istry.    It  must  always  be  recollected,  however,  that 
the  most  extensive  reading  will  be  of  little  advantage 
to  the  Christian  clergyman,  unless  it  be  accompanied 
])y  the  reiterated  practice  of  careful  composition.     It 


286  Eloquence  of 

is  this  which  converts  the  materiaJs  of  reading  to  the 
nourishment  of  tlwuarht,  which  establishes  a  habit  of 
arrangement,  of  viewing  objects  with  accuracy  and 
distinction,  and  of  expressing  sentiments  with  variety, 
fullness,  and  freedom. 

The  gospel  preacher  must  maintain  an  unremitting 
regard  to  the  great  ends  of  his  office  ;    which  are,  to 
honour  his  divine  Master,  by  a  faithful  exhibition  of 
revealed  truths,  and  an  ample  declaration  of  his  coun- 
sels to  men  ;  to  promote  the  best  interests  of  his  fel- 
low-creatures, by  conscientiously  explaining  the  doc- 
trines, and  enforcing  the  duties  of  religion,  by  endeav- 
ouring to  confirm  their  faith,  increase  their  comfort, 
and  influence  their  practice  :  to  adapt  his  discourses 
to  the  nature  of  the  times,  and  the  capacities  of  his 
hearers ; — by  trying  to  stop  the  progress  of  prevailing 
vices,  directing  to  the  proper  uses  of  national  calami- 
ties, and  exciting  to  the  grateful  acknowledgment  of 
public  mercies;  by  avoiding   unedifying  conjectures 
about  points  confessedly  obscure,  matters  of  mere 
speculation,  and  the  peculiarities  of  party  opinion, 
which  tend  to  foster  a  disputatious  temper,  and  to 
"minister  questions  rather  than  godly  edifying  ;"— - 
by  guarding  against  those  minute  criticisms,  abstract- 
ed reasonings,  and  learned  investigations,  which  are 
not  level  to  the  comprehension  of  a  common  audience, 
and  turning  his  thoughts  into  such  a  shape,  as  shall 
bid  fairest  for  drawing  the  attention,  enlightening  the 
minds,  and  allecting  the  hearts  of  his  hearers  ; — by 
confining  himself  in  every  discourse  to  a  single  lead- 
ing truth,  character,  virtue,   or  vice,  which,  when 
properly  explained,  placed  in  interesting  views,  and 
enforced    by  suitable  motives,  can  scarcely  fail   to 
penetrate  and  pcssess  the  heojt. 


the  Pulpit.  237 

SECTION  ir. 

The  Commandments. 

And  God  spake  all  these  words,  saying ; 

I  am  the  Lord,  thy  God,  which  brought  tlice  out 
of  the  land  of  Egypt,  out  of  the  house  of  bondage : 

Thou  shall  have  no  other  gods  before  me. 

Thou  shalt  uot  make  unto  tliee  any  graven  image, 
or  any  likeness  of  any  thing  that  is  in  heaven  above, 
or  that  is  in  the  earth  beneath,  or  that  is  in  the  water 
under  the  earth.  Thou  slialt  not  bow  down  thyself  to 
them,  nor  serve  them  :  for  I  the  Lord  thy  God,  aiu  a 
jealous  God,  visiting  the  iniquity  of  the  fathers  up- 
on the  children,  unto  tlie  third  and  fourth  generation 
of  them  that  hate  me  ;  and  shewing  mercy  unto 
thousands  of  them  that  love  me,  and  keep  my  com- 
mandments. 

TJiou  shalt  not  take  the  name  of  the  Lord  thy  God 
in  vain,  for  the  Lord  will  not  hold  him  guiltless  tliat 
taketh  his  name  in  vain. 

Remember  the  sabbath  day,  to  keep  it  holy.  Six 
days  shalt  thou  labour,  and  do  all  thy  work.  But  the 
seventh  day  is  the  sabbath  of  the  Lord  thy  God  :  in  it 
thou  shalt  not  do  any  work,  thou,  nor  thy  son,  nor 
thy  daughter,  thy  man-servant,  nor  thy  maid  servant, 
nor  thy  cattle,  nor  the  stranger  that  is  within  thy 
gates  ;  For  in  six  days  the  Lord  made  heaven  and 
€arth,  the  sea,  and  all  that  in  them  is,  and  rested  the 
seventh  day  :  wherefore  the  Lord  blessed  the  Sabbath 
day  and  hallowed  it. 

Honour  thy  father  and  thy  mother:  that  thy  days 
may  be  long  upon  the  land  which  the  Lord  thy  God 
giveth  thee. 

Thou  shalt  not  kill. 

Thou  shalt  not  commit  adulter}'. 

Thou  shalt  not  steal. 

Thou  shalt  not  bear  false  witness  agaicst  thy  neigh- 
bour. 


333  Eloquence  of  ^ 

Thou  slialt  not  covet  thy  neighbour's  house,  thou 
shall  not  covet  thy  neighbour's  wife,  nor  his  man-ser- 
vant, nor  his  maid  servant,  nor  his  ox,  nor  his  ass, 
nor  anything  that  is  thy  neighbour's" 


SECTION  HI. 

Natkanh  Parable. 


And  the  Lord  sent  Nathan  unto  David  ;  and  he 
went  unto  him,  and  said  unto  him : 

♦'  There  were  two  men  in  one  city  ;  the  one  rich, 
and  the  other  poor.  The  rich  man  had  exceeding 
many  flocks  and  herds:  But  the  poor  man  had  noth» 
ing,  save  one  little  ewe  lamb,  which  he  had  nour- 
ished and  brought  up;  and  it  grew  up  together  with 
liim  ;  and  with  his  children  ;  it  did  eat  of  his  own 
meat,  and  drank  of  his  own  cup,  and  lay  in  Jiis  bo- 
som, and  was  unto  hira  as  a  daughter. 

And  there  came  a  traveller  unto  the  rich  man, 
and  he  spared  to  take  of  his  own  flock  and  of  his  own 
herd,  to  dress  for  the  wayfaring  man,  that  was  come 
unto  hira  ;  but  took  the  poor  man's  lamb,  and  dres- 
sed it  for  the  man  that  was  come  unto  hira." 

And  David's  anger  was  greatly  kindled  against  the 
man  ;  and  he  said  to  Nathan  ; 

"As  the  Lord  liveth,  the  man  that  hath  done  this 
thing  shall  surely  die.  And  he  shall  restore  the  lamb 
fourfold,  because  he  did  this  thing,  and  because  he 
had  no  pity." 

And  Nathan  said  unto  David,  '*  Thou  art  the  man." 


the  Pulpit.  289 

SECTION  IV. 

Parable  of  the  Prodigal  Son. 

THE  parable  of  the  prodigal  is  no  less  beautiful 
and  pathetic,  than  it  is  instructive  and  consolatory. 
It  sets  before  us,  in  the  most  striking  view,  the  pro- 
gress and  the  fatal  consequences  of  vice,  on  the  one 
hand;  and,  on  the  other,  the  paternal  readiness  of 
our  Almighty  Father  to  receive  the  returning  penitent 
to  pardou  and  racrcy.  It  is  peculiarly  instructive  to 
youth  ;  and  would  liecome  very  instrumental  to  pre- 
serve them  from  the  pernicious  alluretnents  of  sin 
and  folly,  if  they  would  seriously  reflect  upon  it;  if 
they  would  contemplate,  in  the  example  of  the  pro- 
digal before  tJiem,  the  nature  and  the  effects  of  those 
vices  which  brought  him  to  extreme  distress,  and 
whicli  will  ever  bring  to  distress  all  those  who  indulge 
thcni. 

A  certain  man  liad  two  sons  :  and  the  youngest  of 
tacra  said  to  his  father,  "  Father,  give  me  the  portion 
of  goods  that  falleth  to  me."  And  he  divided  unto 
thcia  his  living.  And  not  many  days  after,  the  youn- 
gest son  gathered  all  together,  and  took  his  journey 
into  a  far  country,  and  there  wasted  his  substance 
with  riotous  living.  And  when  he  had  spent  all,  there 
arose  a  mighty  famine  in  that  land,  and  he  began  to 
be  in  want.  And  he  went  and  joined  himself  to  a 
citizen  of  that  country,  and  he  sent  him  into  his 
fields  to  feed  swine.  And  he  would  fain  have  filled 
his  belly  with  the  husks  that  the  swine  did  eat :  and 
DO  man  gave  unto  him.  And  when  he  came  to  him- 
self, he  said,  '  How  many  hired  servants  of  my  fa- 
ther's have  bread  enough  and  to  spare,  and  I  perish 
with  hunger  ?'  I  will  arise  and  go  to  my  father,  and 
will  say  to  him,  '  Father,  I  have  sinned  against  hea- 
ven, and  before  thee,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be 
called  thy  son  :  make  me  as  one  of  thy  hirer!  servants.' 
•\nd  he  arose,  and  came  to  his  father. 


2'JO  Eloquence  of 

But  when  he  was  yet  a  great  way  off,  his  father  saw 
liirn,  and  had  compassion,  and  ran,  and  fell  on  his 
neck  and  kissed  him.  And  the  son  said  unto  him, 
♦Father,  f  have  sinned  against  heaven,  and  in  thy 
sight,  and  am  no  more  worthy  to  be  called  thy  son.' 
But  the  father  said  to  his  servants,  Bring  forth  the 
best  robe,  and  put  it  on  him,  and  put  a  ring  on  his 
hand,  and  shoes  on  his  feet.  And  bring  hither  the 
fatted  calf,  and  kill  it,  and  let  us  eat,  and  be  merry. 
For  this  my  son  was  dead,  and  is  alive  again  •,  he 
was  lost,  and  is  found.'  And  they  began  to  be  mer- 
ry- 

Now  his  elder  son,  was  in  the  field,  and  as  he  came 
and  drew  nigh  to  the  house,  he  heard  music  and  dan- 
cing. And  he  called  one  of  the  servants,  and  asked 
what  these  things  meant.  And  he  said  unto  him, 
'Thy  brother  is  come,  and  thy  father  hath  killed  the 
fatted  calf,  because  he  hath  received  him  safe  and 
sound.'  And  he  was  angry,  and  would  not  go  in  : 
therefore  came  his  father  out,  and  intreated  him. 
And  he  answering,  said  to  his  father,  ♦  Lo  these  ma- 
ny years  do"!  serve  thee,  neither  transgressed  I  at  any 
time  thy  commandments,  and  yet  thou  never  ga- 
vest  me  a  kid,  that  I  might  make  merry  with  my 
friends.  But  as  soon  as  this  thy  son  was  come,  who 
hath  devoured  thy  living  with  harlots,  thou  hast  kil- 
led for  him  the  fatted  calf.'  And  he  said  unto  him, 
*  Son,  thou  art  ever  with  me,  and  all  that  I  have  is 
thine.  It  was  meet  tliat  we  should  make  merry,  and 
be  glad  :  for  this  thy  brother  was  dead,  and  is  alive 
asrain:  and  was  lost  and  is  found.' 


SECTION  V. 


The   AtJiei&t Jlis    stupendous    attainments^   if   he 

knows  there  is  ?io  God. 
IIow  wonderful  the  process   by  which  a  man  can 
grow  'o  (lie  immense  intelligence  that  can  knovj  that 


the  Pulpit.  291 

there  is  no  God.  What  ages  and  what  lights  are  ne- 
cessary for  this  siupendons  attainment !  This  intel- 
ligence iiiv^olvcs  the  very  attributes  of  Divinity, 
while  a  God  is  denied.  For  unless  this  man  is  om- 
nipresent, unless  he  is  at  this  moment  in  every  place 
in  the  universe,  he  cannot  know  but  there  may  be  in 
some  place  manifestations  of  a  Deity  by  which  even 
he  would  be  overpowered.  If  he  does  not  know  abso- 
lutely every  agent  in  the  universe,  tlie  one  that  he 
does  not  know  may  be  God.  If  he  is  not  himself  the 
chief  agent  in  the  universe,  and  does  not  know  what 
is  so,  that  which  is  so  may  be  God.  If  he  is  not  in 
absolute  possession  of  all  the  propositions  that  con- 
stitute universal  truth,  the  one  which  he  wants  may 
be,  that  there  is  a  God.  If  he  cannot  with  certainty 
assign  the  cause  of  all  that  he  perceives  to  csist,  that 
cause  may  be  a  God.  If  he  does  not  know  every 
thing  that  has  been  done  in  the  immeasurable  ages 
that  are  past,  some  things  may  have  been  done  by  a 
God.  Thus,  unless  he  knows  all  things,  that  is, 
unless  h&  precludes  another  Deity  by  being  one  him- 
self, he  cannot  know  that  the  Being  whose  e:Mistence 
he  rejects,  does  not  exist.  But  he  must  know  that  he 
does  not  exist,  else  he  deserves  equal  contempt  and 
compassion  for  the  temerity  with  which  he  firmly  a- 
vows  his  rejection  and  acts  accordingly.  And  yet  a 
man  of  ordinary  age  and  intelligence  may  present 
himself  to  you  with  the  avowal  of  being  thus  distin- 
guished from  the  crowd;  and  if  he  would  describe 
the  manner  in  which  lie  has  attained  this  eminence, 
you  would  feel  a  melancholy  interest  in  contemplating 
that  process  of  which  the  result  is  so  portentous. 

Surely  the  creature  that  thus  lifts  his  voice,  and  de- 
fies all  invisible  power  M'ithin  the  possibilities  of  in* 
ilnity,  challenging  whatever  unknown  being  may  hear 
him,  and  who  may,  if  he  will,  appropriate  that  title 
of  Almighty  which  is  pronounced  in  scorn,  to  cvincer 
his  existence,  by  his  vengeance;  surely  this  man  was 
not  as  yesterday  a  little  child,  that  would  tremble  and 
cry  at  the  approach  of  a  diminutive  reptile. 


^93  Eloquence  oj 


SECTION  VI. 

ruf.ections    on  the   Omnipresence  of  the  Deiti/,  and 
the  thoughtlessness  of  man. 

It  is  a  cause  for  wonder  and  sorrow,  to  see  mil- 
lions of  rational  creatures  growing  into  their  perma- 
nent habits,  under  the  conforming  efikacy  of  ever}' 
thing  wliich  they  ought  to  resist,  and  receiving  no 
part  of  those  habits  from  impressions  of  the  Supreme 
Object.  They  are  content  that  a  narrow  scene  of  a 
diminutive  world  with  its  atoms  and  evils,  should 
usurp  and  deprave  and  £nish  their  education  for  im- 
mortality, while  the  Infinite  Spirit  is  here,  whose 
transforming  companionship  would  exalt  them  into 
his  sons,  and  leari  them  into  eternity  in  his  likeness. 

Oh  why  is  it  so  possible  that  this  greatest  inhabitant 
of  every  place  where  men  are  living,  should  be  the 
last  whose  society  they  seek,  or  of  whose  being  con- 
stantly near  theai  they  feel  the  importance?  V/hy  is 
it  possible  to  be  surrounded  with  the  intelligent  Real- 
ity which  exists  wherever  we  are,  with  attributes  that 
are  infinite,  and  not  feel  respecting  all  other  things 
which  may  be  attempting  to  press  on  our  minds  and 
affect  their  character,  as  if  they  retained  with  difficul- 
ty tlieir  shadows  of  existence,  and  were  continually 
on  the  point  of  vanishing  into  nothing?  Why  is  this 
stupendous  Intelligence  so  retired  and  silent,  while 
present,  over  all  the  scenes  of  the  earth,  and  in  all  the 
paths  and  abodes  of  men  ?  Why  does  he  keep  his 
glory  invisible  behind  the  shades  and  visions  of  the 
material  world  ?  Why  does  not  this  latent  glory  some- 
times beam  forth  with  such  a  manifestation  as  could 
never  be  forgotten,  nor  ever  be  remembered  without 
an  emotion  of  religious  fear?  And  why,  in  contempt 
of  all  that  he  has  displayed  to  excite  either  fear  or 
love, is  it  still  possible  for  a  rational  creature  so  to  live, 
that  it  must  finally  come  to  an  interview  with  him  in 
a  character  completed  by  the  full  assemblage  of  those 


the  Pulpit.  293 

acquisitions  which  have  separately  been  disapproved 
by  him  through  every  stage  of  the  accumulation. 

Why  is  it  possible  for  feeble  creatures  to  maintain 
their  little  dependent  beings  fortified  and  invincible  in 
sin,  amidst  the  presence  of  divine  purity  ?  Why  does 
not  the  thought  of  such  a  being  strike  through  the 
mind  with  such  intense  antipathy  to  evil  as  to  blast 
with  death  every  active  principle  that  is  beginning  to 
pervert  it,  and  render  gradual  additions  of  depravity, 
growing  into  the  solidity  of  habit,  as  impossible  as  for 
perishable  materials  to  be  raised  into  structures  amidst 
the  fires  of  the  last  day  ?  How  is  it  possible  to  forget 
the  solicitude  which  should  accompany  the  conscious- 
ness that  such  a  being  is  continually  darting  upon  us 
the  beams  of  observant  thought,  (if  we  may  apply 
such  a  terra  to  omniscience,)  that  we  are  exposed  to 
the  peircing  inspection,  compared  to  which  the  con- 
centrated attention  of  all  the  beings  in  the  universe 
besides,  would  be  but  as  the  powerless  gaze  of  an  in- 
fant? Why  is  faith,  that  faculty  of  spiritual  apprehen- 
sion, so  absent,  or  so  incomparably  riiore  slow  and 
reluctant  to  receive  a  just  perception  of  the  grandest 
of  its  objects,  than  the  senses  are  adapted  lo  receive 
the  impressions  of  theirs  ?  While  there  is  a  spirit  per- 
vading the  universe  with  an  infinite  energy  of  being, 
why  have  the  few  particles  of  dust  which  enclose  our 
spirits  the  power  to  intercept  all  sensible  coramuni- 
catiou  with  it,  and  to  place  them  as  in  a  vacuity  wh€re 
the  sacred  Essence  had  been  precluded  or  extinguish- 
ed? 

If  there  is  such  a  being  as  we  mean  by  the  term  God, 
the  ordinary  intelligence  of  a  serious  mind  will  be 
quite  enough  to  see  that  it  must  be  a  melancholy  thing 
to  pass  through  life,  and  quit  it^  just  as  if  there  were 
not  Through  what  defect  or  infatuatioa  of  mind 
then  have  you  been  able,  during  so  many  years  spent 
in  the  presence  of  a  God,  to  continue  even  to  this  hour 
as  clear  of  all  raarksand  traces  of  any  divine  influen- 
■  c€s  having  operated  on  you,  as  if  the  Deity 'were  bu 

apoeiical  fiction,  or  an  idol  in  some  temple  ef  Asia 


29'Jf  Eloquence  nf 

Obviously,  as  the  immediate  cause,  through  want  oi 
thought  concerning  hira. 

And  why  did  you  not  think  of  him?  Did  a  most 
solemn  thought  of  hira  never  once  penetrate  your 
soul,  while  admitting  the  })roposition  that  there  is 
such  a  Being?  If  it  never  did,  what  is  reason,  what 
is  mind,  what  is  man  ?  If  it  did  once,  how  could  its 
ellects  stop  there?  How  could  a  deep  thought,  on  so 
singular  and  momentous  a  subject,  fail  to  impose  on 
the  mind  a  permanent  necessity  of  frequently  recalling 
it ;  as  some  awful  or  magnificent  spectacle  will  haunt 
you  with  a  long  recurrence  of  i(s  image,  even  if  the 
spectacle  itself  were  seen  no  more  ? 

Why  did  you  Dot  think  of  him  ?  How  could  you 
estimate  so  mr.inly  your  mind  with  all  its  capacities, 
as  to  feel  no  regret  that  an  endless  series  of  trifles 
sliould  seize,  and  occupy  as  their  right,  all  your 
thoughts,  and  deny  them  both  the  liberty  and  the  am- 
bition of  going  on  to  the  greatest  Object  ?  How, 
while  called  to  the  contemplations  which  absorb  the 
spirits  of  heaven,  could  you  be  so  patient  of  the  task 
of  counting  the  Hies  of  a  summer's  day  ? 

Why  did  you  not  think  of  him  ?  You  knew  your- 
self to  be  in  the  hands  of  some  Being  from  whose 
power  you  could  not  be  withdrawn ;  was  it  not  an 
equal  defect  of  curiosity  and  prudence,  to  indulge  a 
careless  confidence  that  sought  no  acquaintance  with 
liis  nature  and  his  dispositions,  nor  ever  anxiously 
inquired  what  conduct  should  be  observed  toward 
him,  and  what  expectations  might  be  entertained  from 
him?  You  would  have  been  alarmed  to  have  felt 
yourself  in  the  power  of  a  mysterious  stranger  of 
your  own  feeble  species  ;  but  let  the  stranger  be  om- 
nipotent, and  you  cared  no  more. 

Why  did  you  not  think  of  him  ?  One  would  sup- 
pose that  the  thought  of  him  must,  to  a  serious  mind, 
come  second  to  almost  every  thought.  The  thought 
of  virtue  would  suggest  the  thought  of  both  a  law- 
giver and  a  rewarder  ;  the  thought  of  crime,  of  an 
aveog^J^ »  ^^®  thought  of  sorrow,  of  a  consoler  ;  tlis 


I  he  Pntpii.  205 

thought  of  an  inscrutable  mystery,  of  an  intelligence 
I  hat  understands  it ;  the  thought  of  that  ever  moving 
activity  which  prevails  in  tho'sj'ste:-!!  of  the  universe, 
of  a  supreme  agent;  the  thought  of  the  human  fa- 
mily, of  a  great  father  ;  the  thought  of  all  l)eing,  of 
a  creator  ;  the  thought  of  life,  of  a  preserver ;  and 
the  thought  of  death,  of  a  solemn  and  uncontrollable 
disposer.  By  what  dexterity  therefore  of  irreligious 
(•aution,  did  you  avoid  precisely  every  track  wliere 
the  idea  of  him  would  have  met  you,  or  elude  that 
idea  if  it  came  ?  And  what  must  souud  reason  pro- 
nounce of  a  mind  which  in  the  train  of  millions  of 
thoughts,  has  wandered  to  all  things  under  the  sun, 
to  all  the  permanent  objects  or  vanishing  appearan- 
ces in  the  creation,  but  never  fixed  its  thought  on  the 
Supreme  Reality  ;  never  approached,  like  Moses, 
•'  to  see  this  great  sight  ?" 

It  would  be  interesting  to  record,  or  to  hear,  tlie 
history  of  a  character  which  has  received  its  form, 
and  reached  its  maturity,  under  the  strongest  opera- 
tions of  religion.  We  do  not  know  that  there  is  a 
more  beneficent  or  a  more  direct  mode  of  the  divine 
agency  in  any  part  of  the  creation  than  that  which 
*'  apprehends"  a  man,  as  apostolic  language  expres- 
ses it,  amidst  the  unthinking  crowd,  and  leads  him 
into  serious  reflection,  into  elevated  devotion,  into 
progressive  virtue,  and  finally  into  a  noliler  life  after 
death.  When  he  has  long  been  commanded  by  this 
influence,  he  will  beliappy  to  look  back  to  its  first  op- 
erations, whether  they  were  mingled  in  early  life  al- 
most insensibly  with  his  feelings,  or  came  on  him 
with  mighty  force  at  some  particular  time,  and  in 
connexion  with  some  assignable  and  memorable  cir- 
cumstance, which  was  apparently  the  instrumental 
cause.  He  will  trace  ali  the  progress  of  this  his  bet- 
ter life,  with  grateful  acknowledgment  to  the  sacred 
power  which  has  advanced  him  to  a  decisiveness  (.f 
religious  habit  that  seems  to  stamp  eternity  on  his 
character.  In  the  great  majority  of  things,  habit  is 
a  greater  plague  than  ever  aiQicled  Egypt  j  iu  rcli- 


29G  Eloquence  of 

gious  character,  it  is  a  grand  felicity.  The  devout 
man  exults  in  the  indications  of  his  being  fixed  and 
irretrievable,  lie  feeh  this  confirmed  habit  as  the 
grasp  of  the  liand  of  God,  which  will  never  let  him 
go.  From  this  advanced  state  he  looks  with  firmness 
and  joy  on  futurity,  and  says,  I  carry  the  eternal 
mark  wpon  me  that  I  belong  to  God  ;  1  am  free  of 
the  universe ;  and  1  am  ready  to  go  to  any  woiM  to 
which  he  shall  please  to  transmit  me,  certain  that 
every  where,  in  height  or  depth,  he  will  acknowledge 
me  for  ever. 


SECTION  VI r. 

The    Liberty    of   Man,    and  the   Foreknovoledge  and 
Providence  of  God. 

The  foreknowledge  and  providence  of  the  De- 
ity, and  that  lil)erty  which  doth  truly  belong  to  man, 
as  a  moral  agent,  are  things  perfectly  consistent  and 
naturally  connected.  The  proof  of  our  liberty  is  to 
every  individual  of  the  human  race  the  very  same,  I 
am  persua  led,  with  the  proof  of  his  existence.  I 
feel  that  I  exisi^  and  I  feel  that  I  am  free ;  and  I 
may  with  reason  turn  a  deaf  ear  upon  every  argu- 
ment that  can  !)e  alledged  in  either  case  to  disprove 
my  feelings.  I  feel  tliat  I  have  power  to  flee  the 
danger  that  I  dread — to  pursue  the  good  that  I  covet 
— to  forego  the  most  inciting  pleasure,  although  it 
be  actually  within  my  grasp,  if  I  apprehend  that  the 
present  enjoyment  may  be  the  means  of  future  mis- 
chief— to  expose  myself  to  present  danger,  to  sub- 
mit to  present  evils,  in  order  to  secure  a  future  good 
.—I  feel  tliat  I  have  power  to  do  the  action  I  ap- 
prove—to abstain  from  another  that  my  conscience 
would  condemn  ; — In  a  word,  I  feel  that  I  act  from 
my  own  bo^^jes,  and  my  owu  fears  j  and  whenever 


the  Pulpit.  297 

I  act  from  other  motives,  I  feel  that  I  am  misled  by 
my  own  passions,  my  ouri  appetites,  my  own  mista- 
ken views  of  things.  A  lleling  alwavs  succeeds  these 
unreasonable  actions,  that,  had  my  mind  exerted  its 
natural  powers,  in  considering  the  action  I  was  a])out 
to  do, — the  propriety  of  it  in  itself  and  its  consec^uen- 
ces,  I  might  and  I  should  have  acted  otherways. — 
Having  these  feelings,  I  feel  all  that  liberty  which 
renders  the  morality  of  a  man's  actions  properly  his 
own,  and  makes  him  justly  accountable  for  his  con- 
duct. 

The  liberty,  therefore,  of  man,  and  the  foreknowl- 
edge and  providence  of  God,  are  equally  certain, 
although  tlie  proof  of  each  rests  on  different  princi- 
ples. Our  feelings  prove  to  every  one  of  us  that  we 
are  free  :  reason  and  revelation  teach  us  that  the  De- 
ity knows  and  governs  all  things, — that  even  "  the 
thoughts  of  man  he  understandeth  long  before," — 
long  before  the  thoughts  arise — long  before  the  man 
himself  is  born  who  is  to  think  them.  Now,  when 
two  distinct  propositions  are  separately  proved,  eacli 
by  its  proper  evidence,  it  is  not  a  reason  for  denying 
either,  that  the  human  mind,  upon  the  first  hasty 
view,  imagines  a  repugnance,  and  may  perliaps  find 
a  difficulty  in  connecting  them,  even  after  the  distinct 
proof  of  each  is  clearly  perceived  and  understood. 

There  is  a  wide  difference  Ijetween  a  paradox  and 
a  contradiction.  Both,  indeed,  consists  of  two  dis- 
tinct propos'cions  ;  and  so  far  only  are  they  alike  : 
for,  of  the  two  parts  of  a  contradiction,  the  one  or 
the  other  must  necessarily  be  false, — of  a  paradox, 
both  are  often  true  and  yet,  when  proved  to  be  true, 
may  continue  paradoxical.  This  is  tlie  necessary 
consequence  of  our  partial  views  of  things.  An  in- 
tellect to  which  nothing  should  be  paradoxical  wouid 
be  infinite.  It  may  naturally  be  supposed  that  para- 
doxes must  abound  the  most  in  metaphysics  and  di- 
vinity, "  for  who  can  find  out  God  unto  perfection  ?" 
yet  they  occur  in  other  subjects  ;  and  any  one  who 
nhould  universally  refuse  his  assent  to  propositions 


29S  Bloquence  of 

separately  proved,  because  when  connected  they  may 
seem  paradoxical,  would,  in  many  instances,  be  just- 
ly laughed  to  scorn  by  ths  masters  of  those  sciences 
tvhich  make  tlie  highest  pretentions  to  certainty  and 
demonstration. 

In  all  these  cases,  there  is  generally  in  the  nature 
of  things  a  limit  to  each  of  the  two  contrasted  pro- 
positions, beyond  which  neither  can  be  extended 
without  implying  the  falsehood  of  the  other,  and 
changing  the  paradox  into  a  contradiction  :  and  the 
■whole  difficulty  of  perceiving  the  connection  and 
agreement  between  such  propositions  arises  from  this 
circumstance,  that,  by  some  inattention  of  the  mind, 
these  limits  are  overlooked. 

Thus,  in  the  case  before  us,  M^e  must  not  imagine 
such  an  arbitrary  exercise  of  God's  power  over  the 
minds  and  wills  of  subordinate  agents,  as  should 
convert  rational  beings  into  mere  machines,  and  leave 
the  Deity  charged  vvith  the  follies  and  tiie  crimes  of 
men, — nor  must  we,  on  the  other  hand,  set  up  such  a 
liberty  of  created  beings,  as,  neesssarily  precluding 
the  Divine  foreknowledge  of  liumau  actions,  should 
take  the  government  of  the  moa!  world  out  of  the 
hands  of  God,  and  leave  hiui  nothing  to  do  with  the 
noblest  part  of  his  creation. 


SFXTION  viir. 

On  the  Character  and  Government  of  God. 

He  is  the  unsearchable  God,  and  his  government 
must  be  like  himself.  Facts^  concerning  both,  he  has 
graciously  revealed.  These  we  must  admit  upon  the 
credit  of  his  own  testimony  •,  with  these  we  must  sat- 
isfy our  wishes,  and  limit  our  inquiry.  "  To  intrude 
into  those  things  which  he  hath  not  seen"  because 
God  has  not  disclosed  them,  whether  tiiey  relate  ty 


the  Pulpit.  29^ 

his  arrangements  for  this  world  or  (he  next,  is  the  ar- 
ro^fi^ance  of  one  "  vainly  puRcd  up  by  his  fleshly  mind*" 
There  are  secrets  in  our  Lord's  procedure  which  he 
•will  not  explain  to  us  in  this  life,  and  which  may  not, 
perhaps,  he  explained  in  the  life  to  come.  We  can- 
not tell  how  he  makes  evil  the  minister  of  good :  how 
he  combines  physical  and  moral  agencies  of  diflercnt 
hind  and  order,  in  the  production  of  blessings.  We 
cannot  so  much  as  conjecture  what  bearings  the  sys- 
tem of  redemption,  in  every  part  of  its  process,  may 
liave  upon  the  relations  of  the  universe;  nor  even 
what  may  be  all  the  connections  of  providence  in  the 
occurrences  of  this  moment  or  of  the  last.  '  Sucli 
knowledge  is  too  wonflerful  for  us  :  it  is  liigh,  we  can- 
liot  attain  to  it.'  Our  Sovereign's  '  way  is  in  the  sea, 
and  his  path  in  the  deep  waters  ;  and  his  footsteps  arc 
not  known.'  When,  therefore,  we  are  surrounded  with 
difficulty  ;  and  when  we  cannot  unriddle  his  conduct 
in  particular  dispensations,  we  must  remember  that  he 
is  God  i  that  we  are  to  '  walk  by  faith  ;'  and  to  trust 
him  as  implicitly  when  we  are  in  the  valiey  of  the 
shadow  of  death,'  as  when  his  '  candle  shines  upon 
our  heads.'  VVe  must  remember  that  it  is  not  for  us 
to  be  admitted  into  the  cabinet  of  the  King  of  king.';{; 
that  creatures  constituted  as  we  are  could  not  sustain 
tlie  view  of  his  unveiled  agency  ;  that  it  Mould  con- 
found, and  scatter,  and  annihilate  our  little  intellects. 
As  often,  then,  as  he  retires  from  our  observation, 
blending  goodness  ?.  ith  majesty,  let  us  lay  our  hands 
upon  our  mouths  and  worship.  This  stateliness  of 
our  King  can  afford  us  no  just  ground  of  uneasiness. 
On  the  contrary,  it  contributes  to  our  tranquillity: 
For  we  know,  that  if  his  administration  is  mysterious, 
it  is  also  iiisc. 

'Great  is  our  Lord,  and  of  great  power;  his  un- 
derstanding is  infinite.'  That  infinite  understanding 
A\  atches  over,  and  arranges  and  directs  ail  the  affairs 
of  his  church  and  of  the  world.  Wc  are  perplexed  at 
"every  step  ;  embarrassed  by  opposition  ;  lost  in  confu- 
sion ;  fretted  by  disappointment  ;  and  ready  to  con- 


300  Eloquence  of 

cladc,  in  our  haste,  that  all  things  are  against  our  own 
good,  and  our  ^Master's  honour.  But '  this  is  our  in- 
firmity ;'  it  is  the  dictate  of  impatience  and  indiscre- 
tion. We  forget  the  'years  of  the  right  hand  of  the 
Jlost  High.'  We  are  slow  of  heart  in  learning  a  les- 
son which  shall  sootheour  spirits  at  the  expense  of  our 
pride.  We  turn  away  from  the  consolation  to  be  de- 
rived from  believing  that  though  we  know  not  the  con- 
iiccti  )ns  and  results  of  holy  providence,  our  Lord  Je- 
sus knows  them  perfectly.  With  him  there  is  no  ir- 
regularity, no  chance,  no  conjecture.  Disposed,  be- 
fore his  eye,  in  the  most  luminous  and  exquisite  order 
the  whole  series  of  events  occupy  the  very  place  and 
crisis  where  they  are  most  eflectually  to  suljscrve  the 
purposes  of  his  love.  Not  a  moment  of  time  is  wast- 
ed, nor  a  fragment  of  action  misapplied.  What  he 
does,  we  do  not,  indeed,  know  at  present,  but  so  far 
as  we  shall  be  permitted  to  know  hereafter,  we  shall 
see  that  his  most  inscrutable  procedure  was  guided 
by  consummate  wisdom :  that  our  choice  was  often 
as  foolish  as  our  petulance  was  provoking  ;  that  the 
success  of  our  own  wishes  would  have  been  our 
most  painful  cliastisemcnt ;  would  have  diminished 
our  happiness,  and  detracted  from  his  praise. 

Let  us  therefore,  study  to  subject  our  ignorance  to 
his  knowledge  ;  instead  of  prescribing,  to  obey  ;  in- 
stead of  questioning,  to  believe  ;  to  perform  our  part 
without  that  despondency  which  betrays  a  fear  that 
our  Lord  may  neglect  his;  and  tacitly  accuses  him  of  a 
less  concern  than  we  feel  for  the  glory  of  his  own 
name.  Let  us  not  shrink  from  this  duty  as  imposing 
too  rigorous  a  condition  upon  our  obedience,  for  a 
third  character  of  iiis  administration  \s  rigJdeonsness. 

'The  sceptre  of  his  kingdom  is  a  right  sceptre.* 
If  '  CiCuds  and  darkness  are  roundabout  him,  right- 
eouness  and  judgaient  are  the  habitation  of  his 
throne.'  In  theiiraes  of  old  his  redeemed  '  wander- 
ed in  the  wilderness  in  a  solitary  way  ;  but,  .never- 
theless, he  led  them  forth  bv  the  right  wajs  that  they 
might  go  to  a  city  of  habitation.'    lie  loves  his  church 


the  Pulpit,  301 

aiui  the  members  of  it  too  tenderly  to  lay  upon  t]ie;a 
any  burdens,  or  expose  them  to  any  trials,  which  arc 
not  indispeiisable  to  their  J^ood.  It  is  right  for  them 
to  '  go  througli  fire  and  through  v.aier,'  that  he  may 
*  brine:  them  out  into  a  wealthy  place,' — right  to'  en- 
dure chasiening,'  that'  they  may  be  partakers  of  his 
lioliness' — right  to  •  have  the  sentence  of  death  in 
themselves,'  that  they  may  '  trust  in  tlie  living  God, 
and  that  his  strength  may  be  perfected  in  their  weak- 
ness.' It  is  right  that  he  should  'endure  with  much 
Jopg  suffering  the  vessels  of  wrath  fitted  to  destrt»c- 
tioa  :'  that  he  should  p^Tmit  '  iniquity  to  abound,  the 
love  of  many  to  wax  cold,'  and  the  dangers  of  his 
church  to  accumulate,  till  the  interposition  of  his  arm 
be  necessary  and  decisive.  In  the  day  of  final  retri- 
bution not  one  mouth  shall  be  opened  to  complain  of 
injustice.  It  will  be  seen  that  'the  Judge  of  all  the 
earth  has  done  right  ;  that  the  works  of  his  hands 
have  been  verity  and  judgment,  and  done  every  one 
of  thera,  in  '  truth  and  ut)righfness.'  Let  us,  then, 
think  not  only  respectfully,  but  reverently  of  his  dis- 
pensations, rejiress  the  voice  of  murmur,  and  rebuke 
the  spirit  of  discontent ;  wait,  iu  faith  and  patience 
till  he  become  his  own  interpreter,  when  '  the  heavens 
shall  declare  his  righteousness,  and  all  the  people  see 
his  glory.' 


SECTION  IX. 

T/ie  Divinity  of  Jesus  Christ. 

I  CAKNOT  find,  in  the  lively  oracles,  a  single  distinc- 
tive  mark  of  deity  which  is  not  applied,  without  re- 
serve or  liinilation,  to  the  only  begotten  Son.  *  All 
things  that  the  Father  hath  are  his.''  Who  is  that  mys- 
terious Word  that  was  'in  the  beginnings  with 
God  ?'  Who  is  the  '  Alpha  and  Ojiega,  the  begin- 
A  a 


302  Eloquence  of 

uing  and  the  ending,  the  first  and  tlie  last,  the  AI- 
jTiighiy  ?  Who  is  lie  that  'J^nows  what  is  in  man,  be- 
cause he  searches  ihi-  deep  and  dark  recesses  of  the 
])cart  ?  Who  is  iJie  OiiiJiipresent,  that  has  promis- 
ed, 'Wherever  two  or  three  are  gathered  together 
in  my  name,  there  am  in  the  midst  of  tliera  ?  the 
light  of  ivhose  counienance  is,  at  the  same  moment, 
(he  joy  of  heaven,  and  the  salvation  of  earth  :  Mho  is 
encircled  hy  the  Serajihim  on  high,  and  '  walks  in  the 
snidst  of  the  golden  cajidiesticks  :  who  is  in  this  as- 
sembly ;  in  all  the  assem))lies  of  his  pcoj)le  :  in  every 
worshipping  family  :  in  every  closet  of  prayer  :  |a 
every  holy  heart.  '  Whose  hanrls  have  stretched  out 
the  heavens  and  laid  the  foundations  of  the  earth  ?' 
Who  hatli  replenished  them  w  ith  inliabitants,  and  gar- 
nislied  them  with  beauty  ;  having  created  all  tilings 
that  are  in  both,  visible  and  invisible,  whether  they 
be  thrones,  or  dominions,  or  principalities  or  pow- 
ers ?'  By  Jl'hom  do  '  all  things  consist  ?'  Who  is  '  tlie 
governor  among  the  nations,  having  on  his  vesture 
and  on  his  thigh  a  name  written  '  King  of  kings  and 
Lord  of  lords  '  //^om  is  it  tlie  Father's  will  that 'ail 
men  should  honour,  even  as  they  honour  himself?' 
Whom  has  he  commanded  his  angels  to  worship? 
-t,c'^o??z  to  obey  ?  Before  ivliom  do  the  devils  tremble? 
Who  is  qualified  to  redeem  millions  of  sinners  '  fro  in 
the  wrath  to  come,'  and  preserve  them,  by  his  grace, 
to  his  everlasting  kingdom  ?  ?/^oraistth  the  dead, 
in  trespasses  and  sins  ?'  '  having  life  in  himself,  to 
quicken  whom  he  w  ill,'  at  whose  voice  shall  all  that 
are  in  their  graves  '  come  forth  ;  and  death  and  heli' 
surrender  their  nimierous  and  forgotten  captives  ? 
Who  shall  weigh  in  the  balance  of  Judgment,  the 
desiinies  of  angels  and  men  ?  dispose  of  the  thrones 
of  paradise?  and  bestow  eternal  life?  Shall  1  sub- 
mit to  the  decision  of  reason  ?  Shall  I  ask  a  res- 
ponse from  heaven  ?  SItall  I  summon  the  devils  frooi 
their  *  chains  of  darkness  ?'  The  response  from  hea- 
ven sounds  in  my  ears  ;  reason  approves,  and  the 
devils  confess — This,  O  Christians,  is  none  other 
than  the  Great  God  ©ur  S  vviour  ? 


the  Viilpit,  303 

It^dced  the  dottrine  of  our  Lord's  divinity  is  not, 
as  difuct,  more  interesting  to  our  faith,  than,  as  a 
prbic'Jyle^  it  is  cs'^ential  to  our  hope.  If  he  were  not 
♦  the  true  God,'  he  rould  not  be  '  eternal  life.'  When 
pressed  down  hv  c;uilt  and  lans^uisIiiuL,'  for  happiness, 
1  look  around  for  a  deliverer  such  as  ray  conscience 
and  jny  heart  and  the  word  of  God  assure  me  I  need, 
insult  not  my  at^ony  hy  direct  ins:  me  to  a  creature — 
to  a  man,  a  mere  man  like  myself!  A.  creature!  a 
man  !  My  Redeenit  r  owns  my  person.  My  immor- 
tal spirit  is  his  proptrtij.  VV^ben  I  come  to  die,  I 
must  commft  it  into  his  hands.  My  soul  !  My  in- 
finitely precious  soul,  committed  to  a  mere  man!  be- 
come the  property  of  a  mere  man  !  I  would  not  thus 
entrust  my  body  to  the  highest  angel  in  heaven.  It 
is  only  the  '  Father  of  spirits,'  that  can  hcivt proper- 
ty in  spirits,  and  be  their  refuge  in  the  hour  of  tran- 
sition from  the  present  to  the  approaching  world. 
In  short,  the  divinity  of  Jesus,  is  in  the  system  of 
grace,  the  sun  to  which  all  its  parts  are  subordinate, 
and  all  their  statioiis  refer — which  binds  them  in  sa- 
cred concord  ;  and  imparts  to  them  their  radiance, 
and  life,  and  vigour.  Take  from  it  this  cep.tral  lu- 
minary, and  the  glory  is  departed — Its  holy  harmo- 
nies are  broken — The  elements  rush  to  chaos — Tiie 
light  of  salvation  is  extinguished  for  ever  ! 

But  it  is  not  the  deity  of  the  Sou,  simply  consider- 
ed, to  which  our  attention  is  direcied.  We  are  to 
contemplate  it  as  subsisting  in  a  personal  union  with 
the  human  nature. 

Long  before  this  epistle  was  written  (the  epistle  to 
the  Hebrews)  had  he  '  by  himself  purged  our  sins, 
and  sat  down  at  the  right  liaud  of  Majesty  on  high.' 
It  is,  therefore,  as  'God  raanifesterl  in  the  flesh  ;  a.o 
nay  own  brother,  while  he  is  '  the  express  image  of 
the  Father's  person,'  as  the  Mediator  of  the  new  co- 
venant, that  he  is  seated  on  the  throne.  Of  this  throne, 
to  whicli  the  pretensions  of  a  creature  were  mad  and 
blasphemous,  the  Majesty  is,  indeed,  maintained  by 
his  divine  power  ;  but  the  foundaiion  is  laid  iu  his 


304  Eloquence  of 

IMediatorial  character.  I  need  not  prove  to  this  au' 
dience,  that  all  his  p:racious  offices  and  all  his  redeem- 
ing work  originated  in  the  lov«  and  the  ele<^tion  of 
his  Father.  Obedient  to  that  will,  which  fuliy  accord- 
ed with  his  own,  he  came  down  from  heaven  ;  ta- 
hcrnacled  in  our  day  ;  was  'a  man  of  sorrows  and 
acquainted  with  griefs';  submitted  to  the*  contradic- 
tions of  sinners;'  the  temptations  of  the  old  Ser- 
pent, and  the  wrath  of  an  evenging  God.  In  the 
merit  of  his  obedience  which  threv/  a  lustre  round  the 
divine  law  ;  and  in  the  atonement  of  his  death  by 
which  he  offered  'himself  a  sacrifice  without  spot 
unto  God,'  repairing  the  injuries  of  man's  rebellion, 
expiating  sin  through  the  blood  of  his  cross  ;  and 
conciliating  if?  pardon  w  ith  inanile  purity,  and  unai- 
teraijle  truth  ;  summarily,  in  his  perfurming  those 
conditions  on  wiiich  was  suspended  all  God's  mercy 
to  man,  ar^l  all  man's  enjiyment  of  God,  in  these 
stupendous  '  works  of  righteousness'  are  we  to  look 
for  the  cause  of  his  present  glory.  *  He  humbled 
liiraself  and  l)ecame  obedient  unto  death,  even  the 
death  of  the  cross  ;  wherefore  God  also  hath  highly 
exalted  hira,  and  given  hira  a  name  which  is  above 
every  name;  that  at  the  name  of  Jesus  every  knee 
should  bow,  of  things  in  heaven  and  things  in  earth, 
and  things  under  the  earth  ;  and  that  every  tongue 
should  confess  that  Jesus  Christ  is  Lord,  to  the  glo- 
ry of  God  the  Father.'  '  Exalted'  thus,  '  to  be  a 
Prince  and  a  Saviour,'  he  fills  heaven  with  his  beau- 
ty, and  obtains  from  its  blest  inhabitants  the  purest 
and  most  reverential  praise.  '  Worthy,'  cry  the  min- 
gled voices  of  his  angels  and  his  redeemed,  '  worthy 
is  ihe  Lamb  (hat  was  slain  to  receive  power,  and  rich- 
es, and  wisdom,  and  strength,  anvl  honour,  and  glo- 
ry, and  blessing.*  *  Worthy'  again  cry  his  redeemed 
\a  a  song  which  belongs  not  to  the  angels,  but  in 
which  with  holy  ecstary,  we  will  join  worthy,  art 
thou,  for  thou  wast  slain,  and  hast  redeemed  us  to 
God  by  thy  blood.' 


'  the  Pulpit  305 

SECTION  X. 

Rem.irks  on  the  Sufferings  of  our  Saviour, 

Thr  sufferiiigs  of  tlie  Saviour  may  be  ex",mplifie(l 
in  nufuherless  instances,  hut  in  none  so  easily  and  so 
fully,  as  iu  the  redemption  of  the  world  by  the  means 
of  a  Mediator,  "obedient  unto  death,  even  the  death 
of  tlic  cross."  The  sail  never  belield  such  a  scene. 
History  records  no  such  a  transaction.  The  scheme 
would  never  have  entered  the  mind  of  any  finite  in- 
telligence— "It  is  the  Lord's  doing,  and  it  is  marvel- 
lous in  our  eyes."  "  The  thing  j>roceedeth  forth 
fron  the  Lord  of  Hosts,  who  is  wonderful  iu  counsel 
and  excellent  in  working  "  "  It  is  the  wisdom  of 
God  in  a  mystery  ;''  and  the  more  we  are  eidiglilened 
from  above  to  examine  its  sublime  contents,  the  more 
of  their  perfection  sliall  we  discover,  the  more  worthy 
of  God  will  they  appear.  "  For  it  became  him,  for 
whom  are  all  things,  and  by  whom  are  aJl  things,  ia 
hringinjf  many  sons  unto  glory,  to  make  the  Captain 
of  tlien'  salvation  perfect  through  su fieri ii2:s." 

The  sufferings  of  the  Saviour  are  described  in  the 
{;osj>el3  with  siniplicitN'  and  grandeur  combined.  No- 
tliing  can  add  to  the  solemnity  and  force  of  the  exhi- 
bition ;  and  if  we  are  not  affected  with  the  relation, 
it  shews  that  our  hearts  are  harder  than  the  rocks, 
which  could  not  retain  their  insensibiliiy  when"th« 
Lord  of  life  and  glory"  expired.  The  subject  has  of- 
ten come  under  your  review.  Somctiines  we  have 
called  upon  you  to  consider  his  sufferings  as- peculiar 
and  unparalleled  ;  and  you  have  heard  a  plaintive 
Saviour  sayin?,  "  is  it  nothing  to  you,  all  ye  that 
pass  by?  behold  and  see  if  there  be  any  sorrow  like 
unto  my  sorrow,  which  is  done  unto  me,  wherewith 
the  Lord  hath  afliictcd  me  in  tjie  day  of  his  fierce  an- 
ger." We  have  sometimes  considered  his  su[lt2rings 
as  foreknown,  and  led  you  to  imagine  what  were  his 
feelings  while  reading  the  prophecies^  or  foretelling 
Aa3 


oOO  Etoqxterue  •  of 

himself  t  lie  cirrnmstanrcs  of  his  passion.  From  your 
eye  fulurity  is  kiiuUy  couccdJed.  Could  some  of  you 
be  immediately  informed  of  the  troubles  throiieh 
which  perhaps  one  year  only  '.vill  require  you  to  wade, 
you  would  be  ovcrw helmed  in  the  prospect.  But  he 
saw  the  end  from  llie  beqiiiiiin::^,  and  advanced  with 
Judas,  and  the  high-priest,  and  tlie  nails,  and  the 
cross  full  in  view.  You  have  seen  that  his  sull'erings. 
were  not  the  sufTtrings  of  an  hour  or  a  day  ;  they 
were  perpetual:  from  lletlileljem  to  Calvary  "  he  was 
a  man  of  sorrov.s,  and  acquainted  with  grief."  You 
have  seen  him  sutTering  in  his  condition,  in  his  char- 
acter, in  his  oody.  In  his  soul.  This  morning  you 
have  been  led  to  another  view  of  the  same  interest- 
ing subject,  tiie  accomplishment  which  our  Saviour 
derived  from  them;  "he  was  mide  perfect  througli 
suiTerings.'* 

fn  perusing'  history,  wliat  characters  principally 
engage  and  improve  us  ?  Those  who  have  struggle<l 
through  trying  aul  awftd  scenes.  Read  the  Scrip, 
turcs  ;  £x  your  eyes  on  Job,  and  Joseph,  on  David, 
and  Banitl^and  Paul;  were  they  not  all  "made  per- 
fect through  sufierings  ?"  The  picture  w^ould  have 
no  beauty  or  eilect  without  shades.  It  is  on  the  rainy 
f.loud,  tiie  heavenly  bow  spreads  its  variegated  tints. 
Tiie  character  of  the  hero  is  formed,  and  his  laurels 
ure  gathered  only  in  the  hostile  field,  among  "the 
confused  Doise  of  warriors,  and  garments  rolled  in 
bload."  Never  was  the  glory  of  a  prince  however 
illustrious  rendered  complete,  without  some  sudtlen 
reverse  of  fortune  wliich  tried  him  ;  some  heavy  ca- 
lamity, under  which  he  had  an  opportunity  to  discov- 
er his  internal  resources.  That  nobility  is  the  truest, 
which  a  man  derives,  not  from  his  pedigree,  but  from 
himself;  that  excellency  is  the  greatest,  which  is  per- 
sonal ;  that  glory  is  the  most  estimable,  whicJi  is  fix- 
ed in  our  intellectual  and  moral  attributes ;  not  that 
which  a  man  locks  up  with  his  cash,  or  puts  by  with 
his  ribbon  ;  all  these  are  extrinsical,  they  are  no  part* 
of  the  man  ;  the)'  are  appendages  5  additions  suppose 


the  Pulpit  30r 

dfcficicuces:    lie  is  the  most  perfect  ulio  needs  ihera 
aot. 

Suppose  our  Saviour  had  passed  through  llie  world 
smoothly,  attended  with  ail  the  littleness  of  rich- 
es, and  all  the  iiisignificaiue  of  puiup  ;  how  limileil 
Mould  have  been  liis  example  !  how  iinsipid  tlie  narra- 
tive of  his  life  !  how  uninteresting  his  character !  IT 
there  had  been  any  thing  of  the  beautiful,  there  would 
have  been  nothing  of  the  sublime.  How  does  he  ap- 
pear "Christ,  the  wisdom  of  God,  and  the  j)ower  of 
God?"  "  As  crucifiei.!."  Where  did  he  spoil  "  prin- 
cipalities and  powers,  raakins:  a  shew  of  them  openly, 
and  triumphing  over  them  ?"  On  the  "  cross."  To 
what  period  docs  he  refer,  when  he  says,  "  now  i.s 
the  judgment  of  this  worl;!,  now  shall  the  prince  of 
iliis  world  he  cast  out  ?"  The  hour  of  his  death. 
This  he  viewed  as  the  season,  ia  which  he  was  to  be 
maguiiied  and  adored  :  "  the  hour  is  come,  that  the 
son  of  man  should  be  glorified."  This  was  the  con- 
summation of  his  unexanplt-d  career  of  excellence  :  "  I 
must  do  wonders  to  day  and  to  morrow,  and  the. 
third  day  I  mast  be  perfected."  Here  is  the  finish -, 
and  the  wonders  and  miracles  wliich  attended  his  suf- 
feri'igs,  were  not  to  be  compared  witli  the  principles, 
and  virtues,  whictlj  he  displayed  in  enduring  them. 

Of  what  in  his  history  did  Moses  anfl  Elias  speak, 
when  they  appeared  in  tlie  transfiguration?  *' They 
spake  of  the  decease,  wliich  he  was  to  accomj>lish  at 
Jerusalem."  In  wliat  docs  every  Christian  rej-ice? 
God  forbid  tliat  I  should  glory,  save  in  the  cross  of 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ."  What  is  the  theme  of  every 
minister?  "I  determined  to  know  nothing,  save  Je- 
sus Christ,  and  hin^  crucified."  What  is  the  language 
of  the  glorified  above?  "Worthy  is  the  Jamb  that 
was  slain."  Thus  the  su Strings  of  the  Saviour  were 
the  means  of  displaying  the  glories  of  his  character, 
and  of  procuring  for  him  unbounded  and  everlasting 
lioncurs. 


308  Eloquence  of 

SECTION  xr, 

Pxive  religion  and  genuine  devotion. 

The  groat  sentiment  which,  u))on  this  sii!)iec(,  I 
>vish  to  impress  upon  your  mind,  and  which  I  seize 
every  opportunity  to  inculcate,  is  this, — that  in  what- 
ever point  of  lij^lit  you  }jlare  religion,  whether  you 
consider  it  as  an  act,  or  an  affection  ;  morality,  from 
a  pure  and  proper  principle,  comprises  the  whole  of 
it.  The  spirit  of  religion  is  tiie  \oyc  of  rectitude, 
rectitude  living  and  realized  in  tlie  divine  nature  ; 
tiie  exercise  of  reIic:ion  is  tiie  practice  of  that  recti- 
tude. J;istlce  and  mercy  are  not  the  adjuncts  of  re- 
ligion, hutrelii>iun  itself. 

In  giving  iliis  account  of  it,  I  repeat  the  definition 
which  one  of  tlie  apostles  lias  left  us.  "  Pure  reli- 
gion and  undeSled  I  e fore  God  and  the  Father""  pure 
religion" — not  o<ily  calls  for,  as  its  ajipendage,  but 
"eitlds,"  this  is  its  constituent  sulistan^e, '' to  vis- 
it the  widows  and  the  fatlierless  in  their  aiBiction, 
and  to  keep  hiuiself  unspotted  from  the  world.'' 
This, — the  exercise  of  humanity  to  the  whole  circle 
of  its  objects,  from  among  whom  the  particular  situa- 
tions of  distress  wiiich  are  set  bel'ore  us  in  this  pas- 
sage are  selected  by  the  scriptures,  as  being  promi- 
nent figures  in  the  group  of  liuman  miseries,  to  ex- 
press in  one  word,  the  various  objects  of  mercy,  and 
to  represent  the  soiis  and  daughters  of  affliction  ; — 
this  discharge  of  the  duties  of  humanity,  this  active 
service  of  God,  this  worship  of  the  life,  is  all  that, 
in  itself  considered,  communicates  any  jjleasure  to 
the  Almighty. 

The  great  sacrifice,  which  is  alone  immediately, 
and  directly  acceptable  to  the  Infinite  Spirit  is  neither 
any  thing,  that  comelh  out  of  the  ground,  or  that  go- 
eth  forth  from  the  mouth  of  man  ;  it  is  the  sacrifice 
of  our  faculties  upon  the  broa  1,  immortal  altar  of 
society.    The  substacce  of  divine  service  is  social 


tlw  Pulpit:  309 

service,  nenevoloiice  to  man  is  the  "  beauty  of  ho- 
liness." The  grounil,  where  ever  it  be,  npon  which 
honest  goo'iness  relieves  the  indigeiit  ;  consoits  tiie 
dejected  ;  proleils  the  oppressed  ;  defends  the  defa- 
med ;  conmiunicates  the  truth  ;  or  incaic^tcs  value  ; 
the  ground,  wherever  it  be,  upon  which  good  is  done 
from  a  good  principle  ;  or  upon  which  impotent  pi- 
ty drops  an  honest  tear,  and  but  wishes  to  dj  it  ;  is 
better  consecrated,  in  the  eye  of  heuven,  by  such 
transactions,  or  by  such  tears,  thaji  by  aii  the  rtii- 
gious  ceremonies,  that  could  have  been  performed 
upon  it.  • 

The  hous'C  of  mourning,  the  hovel  of  jwverty,  the 
prison  of  despair,  when  they  receive  the  visit  of  char- 
ity, are  temples,  upon  which  the  object  of  worship 
looks  down  with  more  complacency,  than  upo.i  any 
other  temples.  The  sphere  of  usefulness  is  the  chief 
churcli  of  man  :  this  is  the  most  "  iioly  place  :"  the 
"holy  of  holies  :"  the  most  sacred  court  in  the  tem- 
ple of  God  :  those  that  minister  liere  are  the  high 
priests,  whose  office  has  most  sanctit}'  in  his  sight. 
Devotedness  to  society  is  the  truest  dedication  to  God. 
Generous  offi'.es  are  tlie  noblest  sort  of  religious  ex- 
ercises. He  that  teaches  the  sighing  "  heart  to  sing 
for  joy,"  awakes  th.e  harp  which  best  befits  the  fingers 
of  devotion.  lie  that  tunes  tliis  animated  iiistruuient, 
he  that  raises  this  holy  hymn,  he  that  sends  up  this 
sacred  music,  he  is  the  psalmist  that,  in  the  ear  of 
heaven,  excells  all  others  in  sweetness.  Whoe^•er 
wipes  another's  tear,  lifts  another's  liead,  binds  ano- 
ther's heart ;  performs  religion's  most  beautiful  rite, 
most  decent  and  most  handsome  ceremony.  To  go 
on  an  errand  of  mercy,  is  to  set  out  on  the  only  holy 
pilgrimage. 

All  other  worship,  with  whatever  hei<^iit  of  solem- 
nity, with  whatever  sublimity  of  circumstance,  with 
whatever  comeliness  of  form,  it  be  accompanied, 
considered  independently  of  this,  and  as  terminatinj; 
in  itself,  contains  no  degree  of  recommendation  to 
the  Divine  I3cing.    All  the  voices  of  asseiiibled  mar,- 


3 10  Eloquence  of 

kind,  joined  tf>gt'ihcr  i;i  a  chorus  of  praise  to  God  ; 
all  the  iiiiisical  instrinuents  in  the  uorM,  united 
in  a  sacred  concert  ;  all  knees  of  all  the  nations, 
bent  to^cihcr  before  tiie  throne  of  hii^h  heaven  ;  this 
sort  of  praise,  astending  from  all  the  earth  at  oucty 
in  itself  considered,  would  yield  no  satisfaction  to  the 
object  of  worship,  any  more  than  all  tiie  frankincense 
of  the  eartii,  ascending  in  one  cloud  to  heaven,  or 
ail  the  fnnts  of  the  earth,  ))resented  upon  one  spa- 
cious altar: — but  peace  prevailing  among  all  nations: 
equity  reigning  all  around  ti^e  globe;  all  mankind 
concurring  to  promote  the  general  good,  and  dwel- 
ling in  fraternal  amity  together  ;  tiiis  social  order, 
this  moral  harmony,  this  concord  of  faculties,  this 
music  of  min'ls,  were  an  anthem  that  would  enter 
the  ear  of  him  who  *'  is  a  spirit  :  of  him  who  hear- 
kens to  the  silver  chime  of  the  spheres,  and  who  set 
the  silent  hariaonies  of  nature. 


!=»- 


SECTION  XII. 
Tranniion  from   Time  to  Eternity. 

Whoever  left  the  precincts  of  mortality  without 
easting  a  vvisiiful  look  ofi  what  he  left  beliind,  and  a 
trembling  eye  on  the  scene  that  is  before  him?  Be- 
ing formed  by  our  Creator  for  enjoyments  even  in  this 
life,  we  are  endowed  with  a  sensibility  to  the  objects 
around  us.  We  have  affections,  and  we  delight  to 
in  lilre  tiie  n  :  \Yt  have  hearts,  and  we  want  to  be- 
stow them.  Bad  as  the  world  is,  we  fiiid  in  it  objects 
of  affection  and  attachment.  Even  in  this  waste  and 
liowling  vvildf-rness,  there  are  spots  of  verdure  and  ui 
Ilea  ity,  »)f  power,  to  charm  the  mind  and  make  us 
cr}'  ont,  ^'  It  is  good  for  us  to  be   here." 

When,  after  the  observation  aud  experience  of 
years,  ws  have  found  out  the  objects  ol  the  soul,  and 


Ihe  PulpiL.  311 

met  with  minds  rongenial  to  our  own,  wLat  pangs 
must  it  give  to  the  litart,  to  think  ol  parting  forever? 
We  even  coiitrdct  an  atta(  Iiment  to  inanimate  o!  jects. 

The  tree  uiulcr  wliose  shade  ue  ii;ive  ofleii  sat  ; 
the  fiel<ls  u'liere  uc  have  frtxinently  stra^ecl  ;  the  hill, 
the  scene  tif  (ont<  niplation,  (t  li.e  haunt  of  friend- 
ship, hecoiue  objK  ts  ofpassion  to  tlje  mind,  and  upon 
our  leaving  them,  ex'ite  a  temporary  sorrow  and  re- 
treat. If  these  things  can  afltv  t  us  with  uneasiness, 
liuw  great  must  he  the  ali]irtioh,-4vhen  stretched  on 
that  bed  from  whi(  h  we  shall  rise  no  more,  and  look- 
ing about  for  the  last  time*,  on  the  sad  circle  of  our 
Aseeping  friends, — how  grea:  must  he  the  affliction, 
to  dissolve  at  once  all  ihe  attachments  of  life  ;  to  bill 
an  eternal  adieu  to  the  friends  whom  we  long  have 
loved,  and  to  part  fur  ev^ir  with  all  that  is  dear  be'ow 
the  sun!  But  let  not  the  Christian  be  disconsolate. 
He  parts  with  tlie  ofjtcts  of  his  ailection,  to  meet 
them  again  ;  to  meet  them  in  a  better  vorld,  where 
change  never  enters,  and  from  whose  llissful  mansions 
sorrow  flies  away. 

At  the  resurrection  of  the  just,  in  tlie  rrcat  assem- 
bly of  the  sous  of  God,  when  all  the  family  of  heav- 
en are  gathered  together,  not  one  j>erson  shall  be 
juissing  that  was  worthy  of  thy  afieciion  or  esteem. 
And  'f  among  imperfect  creatures,  and  in  a  troubled 
world, the  kind,  the  tender aud  the  generous afifeclions, 
have  such  power  to  charm  the  heart,  that  even  the 
tears  which  they  occasion  delight  us,  what  j'ly  un- 
speakable and  glories  will  they  j)rodure,  wlun  ihcy 
exist  in  perfect  minds,  aud  are  improved  by  the  purity 
of  the  Leavens! 


fiECTION  XIII. 

Early  Piety. 

Now  is  your  goMen  age.     When  the  morning  of 
life  rejoices  over  your  h£ad,  every  thing  around  y^u 


313  Elojucnccof 

puts  on  a  milling  appearance.  All  nalure  wears  a 
fare  of  beauty,  and  -is  aninaated  with  a  spirit  of 
.joy  :  You  walk  up  and  down  in  a  new  world  •,  you 
crop  the  unblown  riowcr,anddrink  llie  uiitasiedspring. 
Full  of  spirit,  and  high  in  hope,  you  set  out  on  the 
journey  of  life:  Visions  of  bliss  present  tliemselves 
lo  view  :  Dreams  of  joj^,  willi  sweet  delusion,  amuse 
I  lie  vacant  mind. 

You  listen,and  accord  to  the  songof  hope, "  Ttvmor- 
row  shall  be  as  this  day  and  much  more  abundant." 
But  ah  .'  ray  friends,  the  flattering  scene  will  not  last. 
The  spell  is  quiclly  broken,  the  enchantment  soon  over. 
How  hideous  will  life  appear,  when  experience  takes 
ofl'  llie  mask,  and  discovers  the  sad  reality  !  Now 
thou  hast  no  weariness  to  clog  tliy  waking  ]iours, 
and  no  care  to  disturb  thy  repose.  But  know,  child 
of  th."  earth,  that  thou  art  lorn  lo  trou'jle,  and  that 
care,  i  hrough  every  sub.'jtquent  j)aih  of  life,  will  hunt 
thee  like  a  ghosl.  Healih  now  sparkles  in  thine  eye, 
thcbi'ood  fiows  j)ure  in  thy  veins,  and  tli}^  spirits  are 
gay  as  tlie  morning:  Butalas!  the  time  will  come, 
Mhen  diseaycs,  a  numerous  and  direful  train,  will  as- 
JLail  thy  life ;  the  time  will  come  when  pale  and  ghast- 
ly, and  strctclied  on  a  bed,  "  chastened  ^v'ith  pain,  an-d 
the  multitiuie  of  thy  bones  wiili  strong  pain,  thou 
w  lit  be  ready  to  choose  strangling  and  death,  rather 
than  life." 

You  are  now  Iwppy  in  your  earthly  companions. 
Friendship,  which  in  the  world  is  a  feeble  sentiment, 
witli  you  is  aslrona:  passion.  But  shift  the  scene  for 
a  few  years,  and  behold  the  man  of  thy  right  hand 
l^ecome  unto  thee  as  an  alien.  Bcliold  the  friend  af 
tiiy  youth,  who  was  one  with  tl)ine  own  soul,  striving 
lo  supplant  thee,  and  laying  snares  for  tliy  ruin  !  I 
mention  not  these  things,  ray  friends,  to  make  you 
miserable  before  the  time.  God  fori)id  that  I  should 
anticipate  the  evil  day,  unless  I  could  arm  you  against 
it.  Now,  remember  your  Creator,  coiisecrate  to  him 
the  early  period  of  your  days,  and  the  light  of  his 
countenance  will  shine  upon  you  tlirough  life.     Aiiiid 


lite  Pulpii.  313 

nM  tlic  c]iana:cs  of  this  fluctuating  scene,  you  liave  a 
frknd  that  never  fails.  Then,  let  the  tempest  beat, 
ami  the  floods  descend,  you  are  safe  and  happy  un- 
der the  shelter  of  the  Rock  of  ages. 


SECTION  XIV. 

Devotion  a  Source  of  Happiness. 

Whatever  promotes  and  strengthens  vlrtnc, 
whatever  calms  and  regulates  the  temper,  is  a  source 
of  happiness.  Devotion  produces  these  effects  in  a 
remarkable  degree.  It  inspires  composure  of  spirit, 
mildness,  and  benignity  ;  weakens  the  painful,  and 
cherishes  the  pleasing  emotions,  and,  by  these  means, 
carries  on  the  life  of  a  pious  man  in  a  smooth  and 
placid  tenor. 

Besides  exerting  this  habitual  influence  on  the 
mind,  devotion  opens  a  field  of  enjoyments,  to  which 
tlie  vicious  are  entire  strangers  ;  enjoyments  the  more 
valuable,  as  they  peculiarly  belong  to  retirement 
when  the  world  leaves  us,  and  to  adversity  when  it 
becomes  our  foe.  These  are  t!ie  two  seasons,  for 
which  every  wise  man  would  most  wish  to  provide 
some  hidden  store  of  comfort.  For  let  him  be  pla- 
ced in  the  most  favourable  situation  which  the  hu- 
man slate  admits  the  world  can  neither  always  arause 
him,  nor  always  shield  him  from  distress.  There 
will  be  many  hours  of  vacuity,  and  many  of  dfjentioii 
in  his  life.  If  he  be  a  stranger  to  God,  and  to  devo- 
tion, how  dreary  will  the  gloom  of  solitude  often  prove? 
With  what  oppressive  weight  will  sickness,  disappoint^ 
roent,  or  old  age,  fall  upon  his  spirits  !  But,  for  those 
pensive  periods,  the  pious  man  has  a  relief  prepared. 

From  the  tiresome  repetiticni  of  the  comnaun  vani- 
ties of  life,  cr  from  the  painful  corrosion  of  its  cares 
and  sorrow?,  devotion  transports  hiai  into  anew  rc- 

IJ  b 


tJl-i  Eloquence  of 

gion  ;  and  surrouiKls  liiin  there  with  siidi  objects  as 
are  the  most  fitted  to  cheer  the  dejection,  to  calm  the 
tumults,  and  to  heal  the  wounds  of  his  heart.  If  the 
world  lias  been  einpfy  and  delusive,  it  gladdens  him 
with  the  prospect  of  a  iiigher  and  better  order  of  things 
about  to  rise.  If  men  have  been  ungrateful  and  base, 
it  displays  before  him  the  faitlifulness  of  that  supreme 
Being,  who,  though  every  other  friend  fail,  will  nev- 
er forsake  him — Consult  your  experience,  and  you 
will  find  that  the  two  greatest  sources  of  inward  joy 
are,  the  exercise  of  love  directed  towards  a  deserving 
object,  and  the  exercise  of  hope  terminating  on  some 
high  and  assured  happiness.  Both  these  are  supplied 
by  devotion  ;  and  therefore  we  have  no  reason  to  be 
surprised,  if,  on  some  occasions,  it  fills  the  hearts  of 
good  men  with  a  satisfaction  not  to  I  e  expressed. 
Tiiese  are  pleasures   wliich  belong  (o  the  highest 

powers,  and  best  affections  of  the  soul,^ To  tliee, 

O  Devotion !  we  owe  the  highest  improvement  of 
our  nature,  and  much  of  the  enjoyment  of  our  life. 
Thou  art  the  support  of  our  virtue,  and  the  rest  of 
our  souls  in  this  turbulent  world-  Thuu  composest 
the  thoughts  :  Thou  calmest  the  passions  :  Thou  ex- 
altest  the  heart.  Thy  communications,  and  thine  on- 
ly, are  imparted  to  the  low,  no  less  than  to  the  high  ; 
to  the  poor,  as  well  as  to  the  rich.  In  thy  presence, 
worldly  distinctions  cease  ;  and  under  thy  inftuence, 
worldly  sorrows  are  forgotten.  Thou  art  th<i  balm  of 
the  wounded  mind.  Thy  sanctuary  is  ever  open  to 
the  miserable  ;  inaGce3sai)le  only  to  the  unrighteous 
and  impure.  Thou  beginnest  on  earth  the  temper  of 
heaven.  In  thee  live  hosts  of  angels  and  blessed  spir- 
ts eternally  rejoice. 


the  Pulpit.  315 

SECTION  XV. 

Jiefleetlons  on  God  as  our  Creator, 

The  contemplation  of  God  in  the  light  of  a  crea- 
tor, cannot  fail  to  excite  in  iis  the  most  profound  ven- 
eration. This  idea  of  deity  is  adapted  to  plunge  us 
into  the  depths  of  that  astonishment,  into  which  it  is 
])lea.sing  to  the  nnud  of  man  to  be  thrown  by  a  sub- 
Jime  object.  He  who  has  pleasure  in  looking  at  what 
is  grand  in  the  highest  degree,  will  liithcr  repair  to 
receive  it.  He  tliat  delights  to  liave  his  mind  distend- 
etl  to  the  utmost  stretch  of  admiration,  must  come  to 
this  idea  for  his  ddight. 

It  is  i-npossible  to  think  of  the  maker  of  all  things; 
without  being  fixed  in  all  the  stillness  and  stupor  oif 
astonishment  ;  whether  we  consider  the  amazing 
niultiplicily  and  magnificence  of  his  productions,  or 
the  coQiplelc  sense  in  wliich  he  is  the  author  of  them, 
ei>mpared  with  the  ini|)erfect  sense,  in  which  man  is 
tlie  maker  of  what  are  called  the  works  of  man.  If 
some  of  the  greater  works  of  man  excite  our  amaze- 
ment, how  much  more  is  his  idea  adapted  to  awaken 
it,  who  made  the  materials  out  which  those  works 
were  framed  ;  wlio  formed  the  fingers  by  means  of 
vliich  they  wci-e  fashioned;  and  who  inspired  th?  un- 
derstandings  ])y  the  light  of  which  they  were  designed. 
If  we  admire  the  inventors  of  inanimate  machines  that 
move,  with  what  admiration  must  we  think  of  him 
who  made  "  the  moving  creature  that  hath  life." 

AH  the  works  of  all  the  human  race  combined, all 
the  fabrics  they  have  constructed,  all  the  systems  of 
matter  or  motion  they  have  composed,  how  compli- 
cated soever  their  parts,  or  extensive  their  dimen 
sioDS,  or  beautiful  tlieir  appearance,  or  powerful  their 
eflfect,  or  excellent  their  uses,  are  proofs  of  a  faint 
aud  feeble  power,  compared  v.ith  the  production  oi 
a  fly. 


3iG  Eloquence  of 

All  tlic  engines  which  human  ingenuity  has  fraiucit, 
whatever  the  variety,  or  the  vigour,  or  the  value,  of 
iheir  mo veiueuts,  display  a  hand  that  shrinks  into  no- 
thing before  that  energy,  that  rolls  the  blood  through 
the  veins  of  a  reptile  •,  that  communicates  to  a  worm 
Us  faculty  of  creeping  upon  the  earth  ;  that  indues 
the  meanest  creature,  which  moves  and  feels  with  its 
wondrous  power  of  willing  and  perceiving. — Where 
is  the  artist,  beneath  the  sun,  who  can  breath  into  in- 
sensate clay  the  breath  of  life  ?  who  can  kindle  a  soul 
of  the  dullest  degree  ?  who  can  animate,  for  one  mo- 
ment, one  particle  of  dust  ? 

.  The  consideration  that  God  is  our  maker  makes  it 
tvident  that  he  must  be  our  preserver.  This  inference 
<•  annot  be  made  with  respect  to  any  human  artist ;  be- 
cause no  human  artist  is  the  framer  of  any  thing,  in 
?hat  radical  and  strict  sense,  in  which  the  Almighty  is 
ihe  former  of  all  things.  That  which  man  has  made 
juay  continue  to  be  what  he  made  it,  when  its  maker 
is  distant,  when  its  maker  is  dead.  The  work  of  man 
may  subsist  in  the  absence,  may  survive  the  dissolu- 
tion of  its  author  :  it  may  exist  for  successive  ages, 
jiwd  for  successive  ages  remain"  a  work  to  wonder  at," 
when  the  hand,  that  gave  it  its  beauty  and  excellence, 
iias  lost  its  cunning  forever. 

For  want  of  deepl}'^  reflecting  upon  the  difference 
betueen  the  forming  hand  of  the  creature,  and  that 
of  the  Creator  of  all,  we  are  some  of  us  apt,  perhaps, 
carelessly  and  inconsiderately,  to  conceiveof  our  con- 
tinuance in  life  as  depending  upon  certain  powers  and 
})ioperties  iu  our  animal  composition  which  were 
originally  communicated  to  it  by  its  author,  but  which 
are  now  entirely  its  own  ;  inherent  in  itself,  without 
hanging  on  the  divine  support.  \^^e  do  not,  with 
sufiicient  closeness  to  the  idea,  consider,  that  he  who 
put  together,  and  put  into  motion,  the  great  machi- 
nery of  nature,  is  its  author  in  a  sense,  whi-:h  requires 
the  incessant  action  of  his  hand,  in  order  to  hold  it 
together,  and  to  support  its  operations. 


the  PulpiL  31? 

It  is  not  so  proper  to  say,  that  the  Creator  has 
coramutiicated  a  principle  of  life  to  the  animated 
world,  as  that  he  is  himself  the  great  principle  of  uni- 
versal vitality.  It  is  not  so  accurate  to  say,  that  he 
has  laid  down  laws  for  nature  to  observe,  as  that  lie 
himself  perpetually  operates  with  that  benignant  re-- 
gularity  which  is  neressary  to  the  welfare  of  his  liv- 
ing works.  lie  is  the  great  spring  and  Impulse  that 
actuates  all  things.  He  is  himself  the  attracting 
power  that  holds  the  particles  of  all  bodies  together, 
and  combines  all  bodies  info  the  beautiful  systems  we 
see  them  compose.  He  is  himself  the  living  soul 
that  inhabits,  and  animates  every  living  thing  ;  that 
propels  every  drop  through  every  vein  ;  that  produ- 
ces every  pulsation  of  every  artery,  every  motion  of 
every  limb,  every  action  of  every  organ,  throughout 
the  whole  animal  kingdom.  Every  operating  prin- 
ciple, through  the  ample  compass  of  things,  is  God, 
that  moment  willing,  God,  that  moment  acting.  He 
is  the  life  of  the  wnrld  :  at  once  the  maker,  the  in- 
spector, and  the  mover,  of  all  things.  Water  we 
call  tlie  element  of  one  animal :  air,  we  say,  is  the 
element  of  another.-  the  vital  presence  of  God  him- 
self is  the  univtrsal  eltuient,  in  which  all  living  crea- 
tures "  live  an  1  move,  and  have  their  being." 

This  is  the  voice  of  reason  and  philosophy,  as  well 
as  of  scripture.  He  that  made  all  things,  must  be 
every  moment  necessary,  to  the  support  of  every 
thing.  As,  according  to  that  particular  constitution 
of  nature,  under  which  we  live,  when  you  Jift  With 
yonr  hand  a  body  high  in  the  air,  if  you  wisli  to  pro- 
long its  elevation,  you  must  not  only  lift  it  thither, 
but  hold  it  there  ;  as,  if  you.  take  away  your  hand 
from  under  it,  that  instant  it  falls  :  so,  according  to 
the  eternal  nature  of  things,  the  being,  that  called  us 
into  existence,  must  every  moment  hold  our  soul  in 
the  life,  to  which  he  lias  raised  us.  If  he  withdraw- 
his  hand,  we  drop.  "  In  ]!is  hand  is  the  soul  of  eve- 
ry living  thing,  and  the  breath  of  all  mankiivl." 
Whatev.r  we  subsist  upoji,  subsists  itself,  upon  him. 
Ail  that  sjstains  us,  it  is  God  that  sustains. 
Bb^ 


Sis  £logiience  of 

Our  deppndacce  upon  iiim  is  the  most  comprehen- 
sive, complicated,  and  profound  nature.  Whatever 
name  we  give  to  its  prop,  God  is  the  staff  of  every 
life.  That  whatever  it  he,  on  which  it  leans,  leans 
upon  him.  WJien  your  seasons  are  fruitful,  it  is  not 
only  he  who  covers  your  vallies  with  corn,  whocau- 
!=es  to  rise  the  suns  that  ripen  it,  who  prevents  your 
hread  from  failing; — but  who  gives  to  that  bread  its 
nutritive  power.  When  your  seasons  are  healthful, 
it  is  not  only  he  who  preserves  your  air  from  pollu- 
tion, but  who  empowers  the  purest  air  to  supply  you 
M'ith  life.  When  your  slumbers  are  sound,  it  is  not 
only  he  who  protects  your  pillow  from  pain,  but  who 
imparls  to  sleep  its  restorative  property.  The  civil 
polity,  that  defends  your  person  from  violence,  is 
the  result  of  Avisdom  which  he  has  illuminated,  ami 
of  passions  which  he  has  implanted.  The  medical 
art,  that  raises  you  from  the  bed  of  sickness,  pro- 
ceeds from  understandings,  which  his  inspiration 
hath  given,  and  is  supplied  with  materials,  which  hir? 
hand  liath  furnished.  The  arm,  that  saves  you  from 
Tiolent  death,  is  an  instrument  made,  and  moved  by 
liim. 

So  completely  is  our  breath  in  the  hand  of  God. 
lie  is  the  soul  within  us  ;  he  is  the  shield  without 
us  ;  the  word  by  which  we  live  ;  the  word  by  whicli 
■we  die.  So  the  Scripture  tells  us  it  is  ;  so  reason  tells 
ns  it  must  be.  Man,  the  partial  maker  of  a  single 
thing,  possesses  but  a  partial  power  over  it ;  God  the 
perfect  maker  of  all  things,  must  be  every  moment 
necessary  to  the  support  of  every  thing. 

The  habitual  recollection  of  this  close  and  intimate 
eeonexion  between  the  giver  and  the  receiver  of  life, 
Igetween  the  living  God,  and  the  living  creature  is 
^vhat  I  would  earnestly  recommend  to  all  befoi'e  mc, 
as  being  adapted,  in  the  highest  degree,  at  once  to 
entertain  the  understanding  of  contemplative,  and 
gratify  the  heart  of  afiectionate  piety.  The  perfect- 
ly uninterrupted  and  the  infinitely  extended  activity 
of  diviae  power,  in  the  preservation  of  universal  nJ> 


the  Putpil.  Sid 

turCj  preseiUa  to  reason  a  confemplalion,  of  all  others 
the  roost  sublime;  wliile  religious  sensibility  is  soo- 
thed by  the  idea  of  beina;  completely  in  the  hand  of  a 
power,  to  whom  it  feels  the  most  animated  love,  and 
iii  whom  it  reposes  the  most  tranquil  trust. 


SECTION  XVf. 
The  Triwnph  of  Life  and  the  Triiwiph  of  Death. 

SiJARP  is  the  sting  of  death,  great  the  victory  of 
the  grave,  shrill  and  terrible  their  iriuiiipli,  when 
simply  considtred  in  themselves,  and  without  regard 
to  Jesus,  the  restorer  of  life,  the  vauqui.sher  of  the 
grave. 

Terrible,  in  t?ie  first  place,  are  the  harbingers  of 
death,  formidable  his  menaces,  tremendous  the  pre- 
paratives he  makes  for  the  destruction  of  life  and  the 
subversion  of  happiness.  What  a  salde  host  of  dis- 
asters, of  diseases,  of  pestilences,  mardi  before 
liim!  What  infirmities,  what  pains,  what  struggles 
announce  his  arrival  J  What  tears,  what  sobs^  v»hat 
wringing  of  hands,  what  shrieks  of  agony  are  seen 
and  heard  in  his  train  1  And  how  nuraermis,  how 
deeply- wounding,  the  darts  supplied  him  for  destruc- 
tion !  Is  there  any  motion,  any  occupation,  auy  ailiic- 
lion,  an}'  enjoyment,  any  gratification  which  may  not 
prove  mortal  to  man?  How  every  thing  sliudders  at 
his  approach  J  How  quickly  as  he  advances  fades 
every  flower  on  the  path  of  life  !  How  every  sound 
of  joy  and  gladness  is  hushed  at  his  tremendous  call. 

What  profound  and  awful  silence,  what  (kjcctiou, 
Avhat  doleful  apprehensions  reign  where  he  appears  ! 
How  ghastly  is  the  countenance  of  the  man  wiio  lies 
pale  and  wan,  faint  and  spiritless,  on  the  bed  of  sick- 
ness, longing  in  vain  for  heli>,  for  relief  and  recove- 
rv,  siu!<ingever  lower  under  Uie  burden  of  pains  ar.d 


3"-20  Eloqnence  of 

miseries,  oontiiiually  more  incapable  of  joy,  ever 
more  insensible  to  comfort,  anxiously  rtu;  iuatinar  be- 
tween death  and  life,  bttwttn  fear  and  hope,  wish- 
ing for  the  return  of  his  Heeting  life,  and  trembling  as 
he  beholds  the  near  approach  of  death  ! 

The  dominion  of  death  is,  (iv)rcover  universal, 
and  this  loo  increases  his  furious  triumph.  It  stretch- 
es over  every  livins;^  thin;?  upon  the  earth.  His  de- 
vastationson  this  sublunary  scene  are  in  a  manner  un- 
bounded. No  species  ot  living  creatures  is  exempt 
from  the  lot  of  inortality,  no  one  is  safe  from  the 
power  of  dissolution  and  corruption.  As  the  flower 
fades,  the  leaf  withers,  the  tree  dies,  so  likewise 
man,  the  lord  of  the  whole  animal  and  inanimate 
creation,  is  a  prey  to  death  and  the  grave.  Nume- 
rous and  manifold  are  the  victims  which  the  grim 
spoiler  daily  and  hourly  demands  of  the  human  race, 
throwing  all  of  tliem  into  the  dust,  without  distinc- 
tion of  age,  of  rank,  of  dignity,  of  merit. 

Here  the  saint  has  no  pre-eminence  over  the  sinner, 
the  benefactor  and  reliever  of  his  l)rethren  no  pre  em- 
inence over  the  destroying  conqueror  and  the  cruel 
tyrant.  Here  lies  the  babe,  who  scarcely  saw  the 
light  of  the  sun,  close  l>y  the  hoary  head  which  could 
no  longer  sustain  its  beams.  Tlicrc  are  mingled  the 
ashes  of  the  blooming  youth  witli  those  of  riper  man, 
the  ashes  of  the  great  and  the  powerful  with  the  ash- 
es of  iheir  meanest  slaves.  Here  falls  the  strong 
man,  who  seeiuefl  to  brave  every  toil,  every  burden, 
every  misfortune ;  there  c^ecays  the  beauty,  who 
flourished  like  the  vernal  flower,  and  promised  her- 
self and  others  so  rich  a  harvest  of  delight.  All,  all 
that  is  of  the  earth  must  revert  to  the  earth  from 
which  it  was  taken.  Wiioever  thou  art,  O  man,  that 
walktst  on  the  ground,  thou  walkest  on  the  territory 
of  death  ;  wherever  thou  scttcst  thy  foot,  thou  tread- 
est  on  t!ie  graves  of  the  dead,  thou  raisest  the  dust 
that  was  formerly  auimatedj  the  fleshly  garment  of 
thy  I  rot  her. 

Terrific  is  the  triumph  of  death,  as  liis  arrival  is 


the  Pulidt.  321 

itenerally  uncxpeotrd  and  Iiis  power  irresistible. 
Now  he  seizes  one  of  us  \\\  the  inloxication  of  pleas- 
ure, then  ill  the  careless  repose  of  the  nii^ht,  now 
uinidst  preparatives  for  the  enjoyment  of  life,  then  iu 
the  various  distraction':,  of  business  aufl  allairs.  Now 
lie  suddenly  snatches  one  from  the  circle  of  his  gay 
companions,  tlieu  the  poor  man  from  his  bosom  friend, 
DOW  au  unexpected  mischance  at  once  strikes  iiim 
down,  then  an  apparently  trilling  disorder  in  a  few 
tlays  or  hours  Lecomcs  incurable.  Rarely  do  we  hear 
Ins  footsteps  from  afar,  seldom  are  we  aware  of  his 
approach,  ere  his  hand  is  alrea'ly  lifted  for  the  fatal 
l)low.  And  of  how  little  avail  are  in  general  the  ear- 
lier warnings  of  his  approach  !  How  vain  all  the  ef- 
forts of  art,  how  fruitless  the  struggles  of  nature  ! 
Here  neither  youth  nor  vigour,  nor  grandeur  and  au- 
thority, nor  virtue  and  merit  can  protect.  Death  ap- 
pears, and  the  most  subtile  energies  of  man  recoil  dis- 
mayed, and  his  most  shining  prerogatives  disappear, 
and  every  attempt  at  resistance,  is  a  proof  of  the  ut- 
most imbecilit}'. 

And  the  proper  business  of  death,  how  tremend-' 
ous!  Who  is  not  seized  with  profound  horror  at  the 
sight  of  it!  Gradual  decay  of  the  vital  powers,  total 
cessation  of  all  spontaneous  and  mechanical  motion 
of  the  body,  universal  darkness,  profound  tiight,  frig- 
idity, numbness,  rigour,  separation  from  the  whole  vis- 
ible world,  the  grave,  corruption,  dissolution  :  this  is 
the  work  of  death  ;  this  the  victory  which  he  obtains 
over  all  that  is  mortal !  And  now  consider  besides  the 
circumstances  of  this  awful  scene,  the  agony  that  sei- 
zes on  the  dying  person,  the  wishes  for  longer  life 
which  are  only  abandoned  so  late,  the  ties  which  knit 
him  to  the  bj-slanders  soon  to  be  dissolved,  the  mul- 
tiplication of  his  suflerings  by  theirs,  the  reproaches 
which  his  conscience  often  makes  him,  and  the  appre- 
Lensions  that  so  frecjuently  torment  him  with  pros- 
pects of  an  uncertain  futurity  :  how  much  more  dread- 
ful must  not  all  this  make  the  triumph  of  death ! 

Yes,  terrific  is  this  triumph ;  since  even  the  contc- 


322  Eloquoice  of 

qiienres  that  filtcnd  the  ravages  which  death  commits, 
an  deplorable,  are  abundant  sources  of  tears  and  la- 
niKiiation.  lion-  painful  the  separation,  bow  deep, 
how  iiioiirable  the  wounds  of  the  widow  and  tiiC  or- 
j)han  ;  liow  irreparable  is  freqiently  their  loss  !  Here 
a  worthy  father  taken  from  his  still  weak  uneducated 
sons,  a  careful  aHectionare  mother  from  her  daughter, 
still  in  want  of  her  further  support  and  example  ; 
there  one  hearty,  generous  friend  carried  off  from  an- 
other. Here  a  thousand  wise,  public  spirited  plans 
and  projects  are  rendered  abortive  j  there  the  quick- 
est and  juost  lively  parts  are  checked  in  their  activity 
and  hopeful  capacities  prevented  from  unfolding. 
Here  llie  industrious  man  is  deprived  of  the  fruit  of 
his  labour  ;  there  the  bu'ls  of  noble  actions  blighted 
in  their  first  cftbrts.  Here  pleasure,  transports,  hopes, 
Iiappiness  of  a  thousand  kinds  are  destroyed,  there 
full  and  various  sources  of  want,  of  trouble  and  mise- 
ry are  opened.  Here  the  forlorn  widow  and  helpless 
©rphan  sit  bathed  in  tears  ;  there  distress  and  indi- 
gence surround  others  who  are  bewailing  the  loss  of 
their  benefactors,  their  patrons,  their  guides.  Thus 
sad  and  gloomy,  my  dear  friends,  is  the  path  of  death  ? 
Thus  terrific  his  appearance  and  the  doleful  conse- 
quence of  his  destructive  sway  !  Thus  tremendous 
bis  triumph  over  all  that  lives  and  breathes  !  Yes,  in 
this  ghastly  form  must  death  appear  to  every  one  who 
considers  it  solely  in  itself,  solely  in  its  proximate  ef- 
fef!ts,  and  without  the  light  of  superior  information, 
without  the  prospect  of  a  better  futuiity. 

Is  then  however,  this  triumph  of  deatli  entirely 
what  it  appears  to  be  ?  Is  it  likewise  to  the  cliristain, 
what  it  must  be  to  the  unbeliever  and  to  the  doubter? 
Uests  it  on  a  solid  basis  ?  Will  it  last  for  ever  ?  No, 
chxistiacs,  to-day  ye  are  celebrating  with  me  the  res- 
urrection of  our  Master  and  Lord.  To  day  we  are 
celebrating  the  triumph  of  life,  of  life  regained  and 
fixed  for  ever  by  the  risen  Jesus.  Oh  rejoice  in  this 
\''ith  me,  and  ponder  with  me.  how  much  grandeur, 


the  Fuipa.  323 

more  glorious,  more  substantial  in  his  triumph  than 
tiie  specious,  evanesccMt  triumph  of  fleath. 

Is  the  dominion  of  death  iinivtrsal,  does  it  extend 
over  all  that  is  transitory  and  mortal  ;  so  is  the  do- 
minion of  life  no  less,  and  yet  far  more  extensive,  as  it 
extends  over  all  that  was,  and  is,  and  is  to  come.  No- 
thing  parishes,  nothing  dies  totally  and  forever.  No- 
thing perishes  that  shall  not  be  rtstored,  nothing  dies 
that  shall  not  live  again.  Even  in  tlie  vegitable  king- 
dom, death  and  corruption  are  the  germ  and  prepa- 
ratives for  new  entrances  and  forrts  of  life  The  seed- 
corn  cannot  spring  up,  not  blossom,  not  bear  fruit,  ex- 
cept it  die.  And  if  the  winttr  with  its  frost  seem  to 
starve  and  to  kill,  yet  the  genial  spring  revives  all  again 
with  renovated  pomp  and  heanty.  T.et  then  the  earth 
be  covered  with  graves,  and  the  dead  be  heaped  on  the 
dead  ;  all  this  is  no  more  than  sowing;  f(  r  the  future 
general  harvest,  and  tliis  harvest  will  he  the  richer 
and  more  glorious,  the  richer  the  sovring  was. 

In  the  long,  wide  field  of  God,  the  father  of  man- 
kind, nothing  is  sown  that  shall  not  again  shoot  up, 
,ind  bloom  in  far  more  beauty  and  perfection,  than  it 
did  in  his  former  state.  Nay,  even  without  regard  to 
this  rcvivihcaiion  of  all  that  once  was  dead,  the  do- 
minion of  death,  apparently  so  universal,  is  not  so  in 
fact.  No,  only  dust,  only  substances  tliat  arc  formed 
of  dust,  only  the  visible,  gross,  terrestrial  shell  of  liv- 
ing and  spiritual  beings  are  subject  to  his  destructive 
power.  The  energy  by  which  they  are  animated,  is 
indestructible,  the  spirit  that  inhabits  them  has  no 
d^ath  to  fear,  no  dissi>lution  and  corruption  ;  it  thinks 
and  lives  and  acts  even  then,  and  thinks  and  lives  and 
acts  still  more  freely  and  nobly,  when  its  shell  is  de- 
molished, when  its  shell  in  the  grave  lies  a  prey  to 
corruption.  Only  the  dust  returns  to  the  earth  from 
whence  it  is  taken;  but  the  spirit  ascends  to  God, 
whose  breath,  whose  iiaage  it  is,  with  whom  it  has  al- 
ready been  in  affinity  and  comnmnion.  And  to  whom 
it  V6  destined  and  able  ever  nearer  to  approach,  ivitli 
whom  to  have  ever  greater  communion.    O  death, 


324i  Eloquence  of 

where  is  then  thy  sling  ?  O  grave,  where  is  thy  victo- 
ry ?  How  limited  is  thy  power!  How  fallacious  is 
thy  triumph  !  Thou  hast  (Icmolishcd  the  tabernacle 
of  clay,but  the  inhabitant  of  the  tabernacle  which  thou 
liast  destroyed,  has  risen  upon  its  ruins,  is  not  des- 
troyed with  it :  that  still  lives  which  tiiou  didst  intend 
to  aiiiiihilafe.  The  immortal,  which  thou  thoughlest 
to  shut  up  in  the  dark  and  silent  tomb  and  to  bind 
with  the  bonds  of  corruption  at  the  same  time  with 
the  mortal,  has  soared  aloft  to  its  creator  God,  and 
lives  and  rejoices  in  the  splendor  of  his  light. 


SECTION  XVII. 

Domestic  Happiness. 

NoTiiixG  can  more  usefully  engage  our  attention 
than  Human  Nature  and  Human  Life.  The  proper 
study  of  mankind  is  Man.  His  origin  and  his  end  4 
the  structure  of  his  body,  and  the  powers  of  his  mind ; 
his  situation  and  Jiis  connexions  ;  are  all  capable  of 
yielding  us  boundless  ar^d  edifying  instruction. 

In  observing  mankind,  the  private  and  familiar 
views  of  their  character  are  by  far  the  most  curious, 
interesting,  an c{  profitable.  The  greater  part  of  our 
history  is  composed  of  minute  and  common  incidents  ; 
and  little  an'!  ordinary  things  serve  more  to  discover 
a  man,  and  cojiduce  more  to  render  him  useful  than 
splendid  and  rare  otcurrences.  AI)road  a  man  ap- 
pears cautious  ;  at  home  he  is  unreserved.  Abroad 
Jie  is  artificial  ;  at  home  he  is  real.  Abroad  he  is 
useful  ;  at  home  he  is  necessary  ;  and  of  this  we 
may  be  fully  assured,  that  a  man  is  in  truth  what  he 
(s  in  his  own  family,  whether  vicious  or  virtuous,  ty- 
rannical or  mild,  miserable  or  happy. 

Oue  of  the  most  agreeable  scenes  v.e  can  ever  sur- 
vey upon  earth,  is  a   peaceful  and   happy  family  ■■■ 


the  Palpit.  3,25 

where  friendship  comes  in  to  draw  more  closely  the 
bonds  of  nature  ;  where  the  individuals  resemble  the 
human  body,  and  if  one  raemt)er  sulfer,  all  the  mem- 
bers sulTer  with  it,  and  if  one  member  be  honoured, 
all  the  members  rejoice  ;  where  every  care  is  divi- 
ded, every  sorrow  diminished,  every  joy  redoubled) 
by  discovery,  by  sympathy,  by  communion  ;  where 
mutual  confidence  prevails,  and  advice,  consolation, 
and  succour  are  reciprocally  given  and  received.  To 
such  a  sight  God  himself  calls  our  attention  :  "  Be- 
hold how  good  and  pleasant  a  thing  it  is  for  brethren 
to  dwell  together  in  unity  !"  Some  things  are  good 
but  not  pleasant,  and  some  things  are  pleasant  but 
not  good.  Here  both  are  combined,  and  the  effect 
is  fragrant  as  the  sacrad  perfume,  and  re\iving  as 
the  influences  of  Heaven. 

"  Who  will  shew  me  any  good  ?"  is  the  cry.  The 
world  passing  along  Iiears  it,  and  says,  Follow  me, 
emulate  this  splendour^  mix  with  this  throng,  pur- 
sue these  diversions.  We  comply.  We  run,  and 
we  run  in  vain.  The  prize  was  nigh  us  when  we  be- 
gan ;  but  our  folly  drew  us  away  from  it.  Let  us 
return  home,  and  we  shall  find  it.  Let  us  remem- 
ber that  happiness  prefers  calmness  to  noise,  and  the 
shades  to  publicity ;  that  it  depends  more  upon  things 
■cheap  and  common,  than  upon  things  expensive  and 
singular  ;  that  it  is  not  an  exotic  which  we  are  to  im- 
port from  the  ends  of  the  earih,  hut  a  plant  which 
grows  in  our  own  field  and  in  our  own  garden. 

It  does  not  depend  upon  rakk  and  affluence. 
It  is  confined  to  no  particular  condition  ;  the  servant 
may  enjoy  it  as  well  as  the  master  ;  the  mechanic  as 
well  as  the  nobleman.  It  exhilarates  the  cottage  as 
well  as  the  palace.  What  am  I  saying  ;  VV^hat  says 
-common  opinion  ?  Dost  it  not  iuvarial)ly  associate 
more  enjoyment  with  the  lowly  roof,  than  with  the 
towering  mansion  ?  Ask  those  who  have  risen  from 
iuferior  life,  whether  their  satisfaction  has  increased 
with  their  cii'cumsiances  ;  whether  they  have  never 
advanced  to  the  brow  of  the  eminence  they  have  as- 
Cc 


326  Eloquence  of 

ccndctl,  ami  looking  down  sighed,  "  Ah  J  happy 
vale,  from  how  ranch  was  I  sheltered  while  I  was  in 
ibce !"  There  can  be  iu'l^ed  but  one  opinion  concern- 
ing the  wretchedness  of  those  who  have  not  the  ne- 
cessaries of  life.  But  "  Nature  is  content  with  little, 
and  Grace  with  less."  "  Better  is  a  dinner  of  herhs 
where  love  is,  than  a  stalled  ox  and  hatred  therewith.'* 
"  Better  is  a  dry  morsel  and  quietness  therewith, 
than  a  house  full  of  sacrifices  and  strife." 

"Let  not  ambition  mock  thy  useful  toil, 
"  Thy  HOMELY  joys,  and  destiny  obscure  ; 

♦'  Nor  grandeur  hear  with  a  disdainful  smile, 
"  The  short  and  simple  annals  of  the  poor." 

In  vain  will  he  be  tempted  to  go  abroad  for  com- 
pany or  for  pleasure,  whose  home  supplies  him  with 
both.  "  And  what,"  says  he,  "  are  the  amusements 
and  dissipations  of  the  world  ?  1  Jiave  better  enjoy- 
ments already  ;  enjoyments  springing  fresh  from 
our  rural  walks,  from  our  social  evenings,  from 
our  reading  and  conversation,  from  our  cheerful 
lively  mutual  devotion.  Here  are  pleasures  per- 
petually renewing,  and  which  never  cloy.  Here 
are  eutertainnients  placed  easily  within  our  reach, 
and  which  require  no  laborious  preparatiou,  no  costly 
arrangement.  Here  J  acknowledge  only  the  domin- 
ion of  nature  ;  and  follow  only  the  bias  of  inclina- 
tion. Here  I  have  no  weaknesses  to  hide,  no  mis- 
takes to  dread.  Here  ray  gralilicatior.s  are  attend- 
ed with  no  disgrace,  no  remorse.  They  leave  no 
stain,  no  sting  liehind.  I  fear  no  reproach  from  my 
understanding,  no  reckoning  from  my  conscience  ; 
my  prayers  are  not  hiu{jered.  My  heart  is  made 
better.  I  am  softened,  prepared  for  duty,  allured 
to  the  Throne  of  Grace.  And  can  I  be  induced 
to  exchange  all  this,  O  ye  votaries  of  the  world,  for 
your  anxieties,  con  Tusiou,  agitations,  and  expense? 
Shall  I  part  with  my  ease  and  independence,  for  the 
trammels  of  your  silly  forms,  tlie  encumbrance  of 
your  fashif)ns,  the  hyp'icrisics  of  your  crowds  ?  Shali 
I  resign  ray  freeJom  for  the  privilege  of  your  slave- 


the  Pulpit.  ^21 

ry,  which  so  often  compels  you  to  disguise  your  sen- 
limenls,  lo  subdue  your  genuine  feelings,  lo  applaud 
folly,  to  yawn  under  a  lethargy  of  pleasure,  and  to 
sigh  for  the  hour  of  retirement  aud  release  ?  Shall  I 
sacrifice  my  innocent  endearments,  to  pursue  the  fa- 
tal routine  of  your  dissipation,  tlie  end  of  which  is 
heaviness,  and  from  which  you  return  deprived  of 
seasonaI»Ie  rest,  robSed  of  peace  of  mind,  galled  by 
redei  tion,  disinclined  to  prayer,  feeling  the  presence 
of  God  irksome,  and  the  approach  of  death  intolera^ 
ble  ?" 

"  Domestic  Happiness,  thou  only  bliss 

"  Of  Paradise  tliit  has  ascap'd  the  fall  ! 

"  Thoti  art  not  kiiowu  where  pleasure  is  ador'd, 

"  Thrit  rrelii!£  goddess  with  a  zoneless  waist, 

"Fovs-'king  thee,  what  shipwreck,  have  we  made 

"  Of  honour,  diguily,  aad  fair  renown." 


SECTION   XVIII. 
On  Patience. 


Patience  is  to  be  displayed  in  bearing  provoca- 
tion. "  It  must  needs  be  that  offences  will  come." 
Our  opinions,  reputations,  connections,  offices,  bu- 
sinesses, render  us  widely  vulnerable.  The  charac- 
ters of  men  are  various  ;  their  pursuits  and  their  in- 
terests perpetually  clash.  Some  try  us  by  their  ig- 
norance, some  by  their  folly,  some  by  their  jierverse- 
ness,  some  by  their  malice.  There  are  to  be  found 
persons  made  up  of  every  thing  disagreeable  and 
mischievous ;  born  only  to  vex,  a  burden  to  them- 
selves, and  a  torment  to  all  around  them.  Here  is 
an  opportunity  for  the  triumph  of  patience,  here  is 
a  theatre  on  which  a  man  may  exhibit  his  character, 
and  appear  a  fretful,  waspish  reptile,  or  a  placid, 
pardoning  God.    We  are  very  susceptive  of  irrita- 


S2S  Moquoice  ftf 

tion  ;  anger  is  eloquent ;  revenge  is  sweet.  But  to 
stand  calm  and  collected ;  to  suspend  the  blow, 
which  passion  -was  urgent  to  strike  ;  to  drive  the 
reasons  of  clemency  as  far  as  they  will  go  ;  to  bring 
forward  fairly  in  view  the  circumstances  of  mitiga- 
tion ;  to  distinguish  between  surprise  and  delibera- 
tion, infirmity  and  crime  ;  or  if  an  inflict  ion  be  deem- 
ed necessary,  to  leave  God  to  be  both  the  judge 
and  the  executioner — This  a  christian  should  labour 
after. 

His  peace  requires  it.  People  love  to  sting  the 
passionate.  They  wlio  are  easily  provoked,  commit 
their  repose  to  the  keeping  of  their  enemies  ;  they 
Jie  down  at  their  feet,  and  invite  them  to  strike. 
The  man  of  temper  places  hiaiself  beyond  vexatious 
interruption  and  insult.  *'He  that  hath  no  rule  over 
his  own  spirit,  is  like  a  city  that  is  broken  down  and 
without  walls,"  into  which  enter  over  the  ruins,  toads, 
serpents,  vagrants,  thieves,  enemies  ;  while  the 
man,  who  in  patience  possesses  his  soul,  has  the 
command  of  himself,  places  a  defence  all  around 
liim,  and  forbids  the  entrance  of  such  unwelcome, 
company  to  o fiend  or  discompose. 

His  wisdom  requires  it.  "  He  that  is  slow  to  an- 
gler is  of  great  understanding:  but  he  that  is  hasty 
of  spirit  exalteth  folly."  "  Anger  resteth  in  the  bo- 
som of  fools."  Wisdom  gives  us  large,  various, 
comprehensive,  sailing  round  views  of  things  ;  the 
very  exercise  operates  as  a  diversion,  affords  the 
mind  time  to  cool,  and  furnishes  numberless  circum- 
stances tending  to  soften  severity.  Such  is  the  meek- 
aess  of  wisdom.  Thus  candour  is  the  oiTspriug  of 
knowledge. 

His  dignity  requires  it.  "  It  is  the  glory  of  a  man 
to  pass  by  a  transgression."  "  Be  not  overcome  of 
evil,  but  overcome  evil  with  good."  The  man  pro 
yoked  to  revenge,  is  conquered,  and  loses  the  glory 
of  the  struggle  ;  while  he  who  forbears,  comes  oft' a 
victor,  crowned  with  no  common  laurels ;  for,  "  he 
tfeat  13  slyw  to  anger  is  better  than  the  mighty  ;   and 


the  Pulpit.  320" 

hetliat  rukth  his  spirit,  than  he  that  taketha  city.'* 
A  flood  assails  a  rock,  and  rolls  ofl",  unable  to  make 
an  irapressiou ;  while  straws  and  boughs  are  borne 
ofT  in  triumph,  carried  down  the  stream,  "  driven 
with  the  -.vind,  and  tossed." 

It  is  also  required  by  examples  the  most  worthy  oi 
our  imitation.  What  provocations  had  Joseph  re- 
ceived from  his  brethren  .'  but  he  scarcely  mentions 
the  crime,  so  eaij:er  is  he  to  announce  the  pardon: 
*'  and  he  said,  I  am  Joseph  your  brother,  whom  j'e 
sold  into  Er:;ypt :  now  therefore  be  notj^^rievcd,  nor 
angry  with  yourselves  that  ye  sold  ine  hither  ;  for 
God  did  send  me  before  you  to  preserve  life."  Hear 
David  :  they  rewarded  me  evil  for  2;ood,  to  the  spoil- 
ing of  my  souK  But  as  for  me,  when  they  were  sick 
uiy  clothing  was  sackcloth  :  f  humbled  my  soul  with 
fasting,  and  my  prayer  returned  into  my  own  bosom. 
I  behaved  myself  as  though  he  had  been  my  friend 
or  brother;  I  bowed  down  heavily,  as  one  that 
mourneth  for  his  mother!"  View  Stephen,  dying 
under  a  shower  of  stones :  he  more  than  pardons  ; 
lie  prays ;  he  is  more  concerned  for  his  enemies, 
than  for  himself-,  in  praying  for  himself,  he  stood; 
in  praying  for  Lis  enemies,  he  kneeled  ;  he  kneeled 
and  said,  "Lord  lay  not  this  sin  to  their  charge-" 
A  greater  than  Joseph,  a  greater  than  David,  a  great- 
er than  Stepheii,  is  here.  He  endured  every  kind 
of  insult  ;  but  "  wjien  he  was  reviled,  he  reviled  not 
again:  when  he  suffered,  he  threatened  not;  but 
committed  himself  to  Him  that  jadgeth  righteously." 

Go  to  the  foot  of  the  cross,  and  behold  him  sufler- 
ing  for  us,  "  leaving  us  an  example  that  avc  should 
follow  his  steps."  Every  thing  conspired  to  render 
the  provocation  heinous  ;  the  nature  of  the  offencci 
the  meauness  and  obligations  of  the  oiieuders,  Iho 
righteousness  of  his  cause,  the  grandeur  of  his  per- 
son;  ail  these  seemed  to  call  for  vengeance.  The 
creatures  were  eager  to  punish.  Peter  drew  hh 
i>word.  The  sun  resolved  toshineon  sucli  criminals 
iiQ  ions-er.     The  rocks  asked  leave   to  crush   ihec). 


33G  £lo(juenc€  of 

The  earth  trembles  under  the  sinful  load.  The  very- 
dead  cannot  remain  in  their  graves.  He  siifftrs  them 
all  to  testify  their  sympathy,  but  forbids  their  revenge; 
and  lest  the  Judge  of  all  should  pour  forth  his  fury, 
he  instantly  cries,  "  Father,  forgive  them,  for  they 
l<now  not  what  they  do."  "  Here  is  the  patience 
of"  a  God. 


SECTION  XIX. 

Cliristiankij  a  Practical  Principle. 

AH  the  doctrines  of  the  Gospel  are  practical  pria* 
eiples.  The  v.ord  of  God  was  not  written,  the  Son 
of  God  was  not  incarnate,  the  Spirit  of  God  was 
not  given,  only  that  christians  might  obtain  right 
views,  and  possess  just  notions.  Religion  is  some- 
thing more  than  mere  correctness  of  intellect,  justness 
ef  conceptioi:!,  and  exactness  of  judgement.  It  is  a 
life  giving  principle.  It  must  be  infused  into  the 
habit,  as  well  as  govern  in  the  understanding:  it  must 
regulate  tlie  will  as  well  as  direct  the  creed.  It  must 
not  only  cast  the  opinions  into  a  new  frame,  but  the 
heart  into  a  new  mould.  It  is  a  transforming  as  welt 
as  a  penetrating  principle.  It  changes  the  tastes, 
gives  activity  to  the  inclinations,  and,  together  with 
■a  nev/  heart,  produces  a  new  life. 

Tiiere  is  a  class  of  visionary,  but  pious  writers  who 
seem  to  shoot  as  far  beyond  the  mark,  as  mere  mor- 
alists fall  short  of  it.  Men  of  low  views  and  gros& 
minds  may  be  said  to  be  \\\?,e  below  what  is  written, 
while  tliose  of  too  subtle  refinement  are  wise  ahovt  it. 
The  one  grovel  in  the  dust  from  the  inertness  of  their 
intellectual. faculties  ;  while  the  others  are  lost  in  the 
clouds  by  stretching  them  beyond  their  appointed 
limits.  The  one  build  spiritual  castles  in  the  air,  in- 
stead of  erectiog  them  on  ihe  "  holy  ground"  of  Scrijg*- 


Ute  Pulpit.  -321 

lure  ;  tlie  other  lay  their  foundation  iu  the  sand  in- 
stead  of  resting  it  on  the  rock  of  as^ts.  Thus,  the  su- 
perstructure of  botli  is  eqti'illy  unsound. 

God  is  the  fountain  from  which  all  the  streams  ofr 
goodness  flow  ;  the  centre  fmni  which  ali  the  rays  of 
blessedness  diverge.  AH  our  actions  are,  therefore, 
only  g-ood,  as  they  have  a  reffienvC  to  Him:  the 
streams  must  revert  hack  to  their  fountain,  the  rays 
must  converge  again  to  their  centre. 

If  love  of  God  be  the  governing  principle,  this  pow- 
erful spring  will  actuate  all  the  movements  of  the  ra- 
tional machine^  The  essence  of  religion  does  nut  so 
much  consist  in  actions  as  affections.  Though  right 
actions,  therefore,  as  from  an  excess  of  courtesy  they 
are  commonly  termed  may  be  performed  where  there 
are  no  right  affections  ;  yet  are  they  a  mere  carcase, 
utterly  destitute  of  the  soul,  and,  therefore,  of  the 
substance  of  virtue.  But  neither  can  affections  sub- 
stantially and  truly  subsist  without  producing  right 
actions ;  for  never  let  it  he  forgotten  that  a  pious  in- 
clination which  has  not  life  and  vigour  sufficient  tori- 
pen  into  act  when  the  occasion  presents  itself,  and 
a  right  action  which  does  not  grow  out  of  a  sound, 
principle,  will  neither  cf  them  have  any  place  in  tlie 
account  of  real  goodness.  A  good  inclination  will  be 
contrary  to  sin,  but  a  mere  inclination  will  not  sab- 
due  sin. 

The  love  of  God,  as  it  is  the  source  of  every  right 
action  and  feeling,  so  it  is  the  only  principle  which 
necessarily  involves  the  love  of  our  fellow  creatures. 
As  man  we  do  not  love  man.  There  is  a  love  of  par- 
tiality but  not  of  benevolence;  of  sensibility  but  noi 
of  philanthropy,  of  friends  and  favorites,  of  parties 
and  societies,  but  not  of  man  collectively.  It  is  true 
Me- may,  and  do,  without  this  principle,  relieve  his 
distresses,  but  we  do  not  bear  with  his  faults.  We 
may  promote  his  fortune,  but  we  do  not  forgive  his 
ofiences  ;  above  all,  we  are  not  anxious  for  his  immor- 
tal interests.  We  could  not  see  him  want  without 
pain,  but  we  can  see  him  sin  without  emotion.    We 


33^  Eloquence  of 

could  not  Iipar  of  a  beggar  pcrisliing  at  our  door  with- 
out horror,  but  we  can,  without  concern,  witness  an 
acquaintance  dying  without  repentance.  Is  it  not 
strange  that  we  must  participate  something  of  the  di- 
vide nature,  !)ffore  we  can  really  love  the  human  ?  It 
seems,  indeed,  to  be  an  insensibility  to  sin,  rather  than 
want  of  benevolence  to  mankind,  that  makes  us  natu- 
rally pity  their  temporal  and  lie  careless  of  their  spir- 
itual wants;  but  does  not  this  very  insensibility  pro- 
ceed from  the  want  of  love  to  God  ? 

All  virtues,  it  cannot  be  too  often  repeated,  are 
sanctified  or  unhallowed  according  to  the  principle 
which  dictates  them  :  and  will  be  accepted  orrejected 
accordingly.  This  principle,  kept  in  due  exercise, 
becomes  a  ha])it,  and  every  act  strengthens  the  incli- 
nation, adding  vigour  to  the  principle  and  pleasure  to 
the  performance. 

Every  individual  should  bear  in  mind,  that  he  13 
sent  into  this  world  to  act  a  part  in  it.  And  though 
one  may  have  a  more  splendid,  and  another  a  itiore 
obscure  part  assigned  him.  yet  the  actor  of  each  is  e- 
qually,  is  awfully  accountable.  Though  God  is  not  a 
hard,  he  is  an  exact  Master,  His  service,  though  not 
a  severe,  is  a  reasonable  service.  He  accurately  pro- 
portions his  requisitions  to  his  gifts.  If  he  docs  not 
exj.ect  that  one  talent  should  be  as  productive  as  five, 
yet  to  even  a  single  taient  a  proportionable  responsi- 
bility is  annexed. 

What  an  example  of  disinterested!  goodness  and 
unbounded  kindness,  have  we  in  our  heavenly  father 
who  is  merciful  over  alf  his  works,  who  distributes 
eomaion  blessings  without  distinction,  who  bestows 
the  necessary  refreshments  of  life,  the  shining  sun  and 
the  refreshing  shower,  without  waiting,  as  we  are  apt 
to  do,  for  personal  merit,  orattachmtnt  or  gratitude; 
who  does  not  look  oui  for  desert,  !)ut  want  as  a  qual- 
ification for  his  favours  ;  who  dt)es  not  afHict  will ing- 
iy,  who  delights  in  the  liappineRs,  and  dcsrcs  t!ie  sal- 
"«?ationof  all  hischiidren,  who  dispenses  his  daily  mu- 
Eiiiiceuce  and  bears  with  our  daily  offences  j  wlio  ia 


ihe  Pulpit.  333 

return  for  our  violation  of  liis  laws,  supplies  our  ne- 
cessities, who  waits  patiently  for  our  repentance,  and 
even  solicits  us  to  have  mercy  on  our  own  souls  ! 

What  a  model  for  our  humble  imitation,  is  that  di- 
vine person  who  was  clothed  witli  our  humanity,  who 
dwelt  among  us,  that  the  pattern  being  brought  near, 
might  be  rendered  more  engaging,  the  ronformily  be 
made  more  practical)lc  ,  whose  whole  life  was  one  un- 
broken series  of  universal  charity;  who  in  his  com- 
plicated bounties,  never  forgot  that  man  is  ccmi pound- 
ed both  of  soul  and  body;  who  after  teaching  the 
multitude,  fed  them  ;  who  repulsed  none  for  being 
ignorant;  was  impatient  with  none  for  being  dull ;  de- 
spised none  for  being  contemned  by  the  world  ;  re- 
jected none  for  being  sinners  ;  who  encouraged  those 
whose  importunity  others  censured  ;  who  in  healing 
sicknesses  converted  souls,  who  gave  bread  and  for- 
gave injuries  ! 

There  cannot  be  a  more  striking  instance,  how  em- 
phatically every  doctrine  of  the  Gospel  has  a  refer- 
e;*ce  to  practical  goodness,  than  is  exhibited  by  St. 
Paul,  in  that  magnificent  picture  of  theResurrsction, 
in  his  Epistle  to  the  Corinthians,  which  our  Cliurch 
has  happily  selected,  for  the  consolation  of  survivors 
at  the  last  closing  scene  of  mortality.  After  an  iaier- 
ence  as  triumphant,  as  it  is  logical,  that  because 
*'  Christ  is  risen,  v»e  shall  rise  also  ;"  after  the  most 
philosophical  illustration  of  the  raising  of  the  b(;dy 
from  the  dust,  by  the  process  of  grain  sown  in  the 
earth, and  springing  up  into  a  new  mode  of  existence; 
after  describing  the  subjugation  of  all  tilings  to  tiie 
Redeemer,  and  his  layiug  down  the  mediatorial  King- 
dom ;  after  sketching  with  a  seraph's  pencil,  the  rela- 
tive glories  of  the  celestial  and  terrtstriai  bodies  ;  af- 
ter exhausting  the  grandest  linages  of  created  natiire, 
and  tiie  dissolution  of  nature  iiseif :  after  such  a  dis- 
play of  the  solemnities  of  the  great  day,  as  ma^fs  this 
world,  and  all  its  concerns  shrink  into  nothing  :  In 
such  a  moment,  when,  if  ever,  the  rapt  spirit  migiit 
be  supposed  too  highly  wrought  for  precept  and  ad- 


334  Eloquence  of^  S^c 

monition — the  apostle  wound  up,  as  lie  was,  by  the 
energies  of  inspiration,  to  the  immediate  view  of  the 
glorified  state — the  Jast  tranipeLsoun-ling — tiie  change 
from  mortal  to  innuortality  cilecied  in  the  twinkling 
of  an  eye — the  sting  of  death  drawn  out — victory 
snatched  from  the  grave — tlun,  by  a  turn,  as  surpris- 
ing as  it  is  beautiful,  JiC  draws  a  conclusion  as  uuex- 
peciedly  practical  as  his  premises  were  grand  and 
awful  :— "  r/iercfore,  my  beloved  brethren,  be  ye 
steadfast,  unmoveable,  always  abounding  in  the  work 
of  the  Lord."  Then  at  onre,  by  another  quick  transi- 
tion, resorting  from  the  duty  to  tlie  reward,  and  wind- 
ing up  the  w])ole  witli  an  arguixient  as  powerful,  as 
his  rhetoric  had  been  sublime,  he  adeis — ''  forasmuch 
as  ye  know  that  your  labour  is  not  ia  vain  iu  iheLord*" 


CHAP.  IV. 

Select  Speeches. 

On  Prejudice. 

A  MAN  deceives  himself,  oftener  than  he  mis- 
leads others  ;  and  he  does  injiislice  from  his  errors, 
when  his  prinriples  are  all  on  the  side  of  rectitude. 
To  exhort  him  to  overcome  his  prfjudices,  is  like 
telling  a  Mind  man  to  see.  He  maj'  be  disposed  to 
overcome  them,  and  yet  be  unable  because  they  are 
unlcuown  to  himself.  When  prejudice  is  once  known, 
it  is  no  longer  prejudice,  it  becomes  corruption  ;  but 
so  long  as  it'  is  not  known,  the  possessor  cherishes 
it  without  guilt  ;  he  feels  indignation  for  vice,  and 
pays  homage  to  virtue  ;  and  yet  does  injustice.  It 
is  the  apprehension  tliat  you  may  thus  mistake — 
that  you  may  call  3'our  prejudices  principles,  and 
believe  them  such,  and  that  their  efi'ects  may  appear 
to  you  the  fruits  of  virtue;  wJiich  leads  us  so  anx- 
iously to  repeat  the  request,  that  you  would  exam- 
ine your  hearts,  and  ascertain  that  you  do  not  come 
here  with  partial  minds  In  ordinary  cases  there  is 
no  reason  for  this  precaution.  Jurors  are  so  appoint- 
ed by  the  institutions  of  our  country,  as  to  place 
them  out  of  the  reach  of  improper  iniluenceon  coin- 
jnon  occasions  ;  at  least  as  much  so  as  frail  humani- 
ty will  |)ermit. 

But  when  a  cause  has  f)een  a  long  time  the  subject 
of  party  discussion — v.Iun  every  man  among  us  be- 
longs to  one  party  or  the  other,  or  at  least  is  so  con- 
sidered— ihc  necessary  consequence  must  be,  that 
opinion  will  progress  one  way — that  the  stream  of 
incessant  exertion  will  wear  a  channel  in  the  public 
mind  ;  and  the  current  may  be  strong  eiicugli  to 
carry  away  those  who  may  he  jurois,  though  they 


336  Select  Speeches. 

l<now  not  how,  or  when,  they  received  the  impulse 
that  hurries  them  forward. 

1  am  fortunate  enough  nottokuow,  with  respect  to 
most  of  you,  to  what  pol  ilical  party  you  belong-.  Are 
you  republican  federalists  ?  I  ask  you  to  forget  it  ; 
leave  all  your  political  opinions  behind  you  ;  for  it 
■would  ht  more  mischievous,  that  you  should  acquit 
the  defcndent  from  the  influence  of  these,  than  that 
an  innocent  man,  by  mistake,  should  be  convicted. 
Jn  the  latter  case,  his  would  be  the  misfortune,  and 
to  him  would  it  he  confined  ;  but  in  the  other,  you 
violate  a  j)rinci})le,  and  the  consequence  may  be  ruin, 
ronsider  what  would  be  the  effect  of  an  impression 
on  the  public  mind,  that  in  consequence  of  party 
opinion  and  feelings,  the  defendant  was  acquitted. 
Would  there  still  be  recourse  to  the  laws,  and  to  the 
justice  of  the  country  ?  Would  the  passions  of  the 
citizen,  in  a  moment  of  frenzy,  be  calsiied  by  look- 
ing forward  to  the  decision  of  courts  of  law  for  jus- 
tice? Rather  every  individual  would  become  the  aven- 
ger of  imaginary  transgressions — Violence  would  be 
repaid  with  violer.ce:  havoc  would  produce  havoc  ; 
and  instead  of  a  peaceable  recurrence  to  the  tribunals 
of  justice,  the  spectre  of  civil  discord  would  be  seen 
stalking  through  our  streets,  scattering  desolation, 
misery,  and  crimes. 

Such  may  be  the  consequences  of  indulging  politic- 
al prejudice  on  this  day;  and  if  so,  you  are  amena- 
ble to  your  country  and  your  God.  This  I  say  to 
you  who  are  federalists  ;  and  have  I  not  as  much 
right  to  sp'jak  thus  to  those  who  are  democratic  re- 
publicans ?  Tiiat  liberty  which  you  cherish  with  so 
much  ardor  dej)ends  on  your  preserving  yourselves 
impartial  in  a  court  of  justice.  It  is  proved  by  the 
history  of  mm,  at  least  of  civil  society,  that  the  mo- 
ment the  judicial  power  fecomcs  corrupt,  liberty  ex- 
pires. V\  iiut  is  liberty  but  the  enjoyment  of  your 
rights,  free  froai  outrage  or  danger  ?  And  what  se- 
curity have  you  for  these,  but  an  impartial  adjninis- 
Iration  of  justice  ?    Life,   liberty,  reputation,  proper- 


Select  Speeches.  SSf 

ty,  and  domestic  happiness,  are  all  under  its  pecu- 
liar protection.  It  is  the  judicial  power,  uncorrup- 
ted,  tliat  l)rinc;s  to  the  dwelling  of  every  citizen,  all 
the  blessinj^s  of  civil  society,  and  makes  it  dear  io 
man.  Little  has  tiie  private  citizen  to  do  with  the 
other  branches  of  goveronient.  What  to  him  arc  tlic 
great  and  spliiidid  events  that  aggrandize  a  few  eiu- 
minent  men  and  make  a  figure  in  hi;jtory  ?  ilis  domes- 
tic happiness  is  not  less  rtai  bccau-c  it  will  not  be  re- 
corded for  posterity  :  but  this  liappiiiess  is  his  no  lon- 
ger than  courts  of  justice  protect  it.  It  is  true,  in- 
juries cannot  always  Ijc  prevented;  but  while  the 
fountains  of  justice  are  pure,  the  sullerer  is  sure  of  a 
recompense. 

Contemplate  the  intcrmefliate  horrors  and  final  des- 
potism, that  must  result  from  mutual  deeds  of  ven- 
geance, when  there  is  no  longer  an  impart icil  judicia- 
ry, to  which  contending  parties  may  appeal,  with 
full  confidence  that  principles  will  be  respected.  Fear- 
ful must  be  the  interval  of  anarchy  ;  fierce  the  alter- 
nate pangs  of  rage  and  terror  ;  till  one  party  shall 
destroy  the  other,  and  a  gloomy  despotism  terminate 
the  struggles  of  conflicting  faction.  Again,  1  beseech 
you  to  abjure  your  prejudices.  In  the  lans^uage  once 
addressed  from  Heaven  to  the  Hebrew  prophet,  "  Put 
oil  your  shoes,  for  the  ground  on  which  you  stand  is 
holy."  You  are  the  professed  friends,  the  devoted 
worshippers  of  civil  liberty;  v>^ill  you  violate  her 
sanctuary  ?  Will  you  profane  her  temple  of  justice? 
Will  you  commit  sacrilege  while  von  kneel  at  iier  al- 
tar ? 


SECTION    II. 

Disqui^Jtion  on  Fat  riot  ism. 


It  is  the  opinion  of  many,  that  self-love  is  tTieerantl 
impelling  spring  in  the  huma.-i  machine.     This  senti- 
I)  d 


338  Select  Speeches, 

nic'it  is  cither  utterly  false,  or  the  principle,  as  dia- 
ulnyed  in  some  actions,  hecornes  so  f  xceedingly  refin- 
ed, as  (o  merit  a  much  more  eairagina;  name.  For, 
if  the  man.  Mho  weeps  in  secret  Uv  the  miseries  of 
others,  and  privately  tenders  relief;  who  sacritices  his 
ease,  his  property,  Jiis  Jicalth,  his  reputation,  andevea 
his  life,  to  save  his  country,  be  actuated  hy  self-love ; 
it  is  a  principle  inferior  only  to  that,  which  prompted 
tiie  Saviour  of  the  wdrld  to  die  for  man  ;  and  is  but 
unot.'jer  name  for  perfect  disinterestednes''. 

Patriotism,  wlietlier  we  reflect  upon  tlie  benevolence 
which  gives  it  birth,  the  ina;^nitude  of  its  olject,  the 
happy  ellVcts  which  it  produces,  or  the  height  to  which 
it  exalts  the  human  character,  by  the  glorious  actions 
of  ^vhic!l  it  is  the  cause,  must  be  considered  as  the  no- 
blest of  all  the  social  virtues.  The  patriot  is  influen- 
ced by  love  for  his  fellow  men,  and  an  ardent  desire 
to  preserve  sacred  and  inviolate  their  natural  rigiits. 
His  philanthropic  views,  not  confined  to  the  small  cir- 
cle of  his  private  friesids  are  so  extensive,  as  to  em- 
brace the  liberty  and  happiness  of  a  whole  nation. — 
That  he  may  be  instrumental  under  heaven  to  main- 
tain and  secure  these  invalual)le  l)lessings  to  his  coun- 
try, he  devotes  his  wealth,  his  fame,  his  life,  his  all ; 
glorious  sacrifice  !  what  more  noble  ! 

To  the  honour  of  hutnanity,  the  histories  of  almost 
every  age  and  nation  are  replete  with  examples  of  this 
elevated  character.  Every  period  of  tiie  world  has 
afforded  its  heroes  and  patriots:  men  who  could  soar 
above  the  narrow  views  and  crovelling  principles, 
which  actuate  so  great  a  part  of  the  human  species, 
and  drown  every  selfish  consideratiiii  in  the  love  of 
their  country.  But  we  need  not  advert  to  t!ie  annaJs 
of  other  ages  and  nations,  as  the  history  of  our  own 
country  points  with  so  much  pleasure  .veuei'afion,and 
gratitude,  to  llie  illustrious  Washington.  Before 
hi'.n  the  heroes  of  antiquity,  shorn  of  their  beams, 
like  stars  before  the  rising  sun,  hide  their  heads  with 
shame.  Uniting  in  his  own  charac  ter,  the  courage 
and  enterprising  spirit  of  lTanuibal>the  prudent  wis- 


Select  Speeches,  339 

do«i  of  Fabius,  the  disintcresUdiiess  of  Cincinna^us, 
and  the  virtues  and  military  talents  of  the  Scipios,he 
could  not  fail  to  succetd  in  the  glorious  undertaking 
of  giving  lihert}'  and  happiness  to  a  people  who  dared 
to  be  free.  Whilst  he  lived,  he  proved  a  rich  bless- 
ing to  his  country,  a  bright  example  to  the  dawning 
patriotism  of  the  old  world,  the  terror  of  despotism, 
and  the  delight  and  admiration  of  all  mankind. 


SECTION  III. 

Burke^s  Enhgy  on  /lis  Son. 


Had  it  pleased  God  to  continue  to  mc  the  hopes  of 
succession,  I  should  have  been,  according  to  my  me- 
diocrity, and  the  mediocrity  of  the  age  I  live  in,  a 
sort  of  founder  of  a  family  ;  I  should  have  lefi  a  son, 
^vho,  in  all  the  points  in  which  personal  merit  can  be 
viewed  in  science,  in  erudition,  in  genius,  in  taste, 
in  honour,  in  generosity,  in  humanity,  in  every  libe- 
ral sentiment,  and  every  liberal  arcomplishraent, 
would  not  have  sliewn  himself  infcriour  to  the  duke 
of  Bedford,  or  to  any  of  those  wliom  he  traces  Jn  his 
line.  His  grace  very  soon  uould  l.ave  wanted  all 
plausibility  in  his  attack  upon  that  provision  which 
belonged  more  to  mine  than  to  me.  HE  would  soon 
liave  supplied  every  deficiency,  and  symmetrised 
every  disj)roport ion.  It  would  not  have  been  for  that: 
successor  to  resort  to  any  stagnant  wasting  reservoir 
of  merit  in  me,  or  in  any  ancestry.  He  had  in  him- 
self a  salient,  living  spring,  of  generous  and  manly 
action.  Every  day  he  lived  he  would  have  repurclias- 
cd  the  bounty  of  the  crown,  and  ten  times  more,  if 
ten  times  more  he  had  received.  He  was  made  a 
public  creature  ;  and  had  no  enjoyment  whatever, 
but  in  the  performance  of  some  duly.  At  this  exi- 
gent moment,  the  loss  of  a  finished  man  is  not  easily 
supplied. 


340  Select  Speeches, 

But  a  Disposer  whose  power  we  are  little  able  to 
resist,  and  whose  wisdom  it  hehoves  us  not  at  all  to 
dispute  ;  has  ordained  it  in  another  manner,  and 
(whatever  my  querulous  weakness  might  suggest)  a 
far  better.  Tlie  sform  lias  gone  over  me;  and  I  lie 
like  one  of  those  okloalcs  which  the  late  hurricane  lias 
scattered  about  me.  I  am  stripped  of  all  my  honours  ; 
I  am  torn  up  by  the  roots,  and  lie  prostrate  on  the 
earth  !  Tiiere,  and  prostrate  tJiere,  I  raostunfeign- 
cdly  recognise  the  divine  justice,  and  in  some  degree 
su])mit  to  it.  Bul  whilst  I  humble  myself  before 
God,  I  do  not  know  that  it  is  forbidden  to  repel  the 
attacks  of  unjust  and  inconsiderate  men.  The  pa- 
tience of  Job  is  proverbial.  After  some  of  the  con- 
vulsive struggles  of  our  irritable  nature,  he  submitted 
himself,  and  repented  in  dust  and  ashes.  But  even 
so,  I  do  not  find  him  blamed  for  reprehending,  and 
%viih  a  considerable  degree  of  verbal  asperity,  those 
ill-natured  neighbours  of  his,  who  visited  liis  dung- 
}iiil  to  read  moral,  political,  and  economical  lectures 
on  his  misery.  I  am  alone.  I  have  none  to  meet  m)' 
enemies  in  the  gate.  Indeed,  my  lord,  I  greatly  de- 
ceive my  self,  if  in  this  hard  season  I  would  give  a 
l)eck  of  refuse  wheat  for  all  that  is  called  fame  and 
iionour  in  the  world.  This  is  the  appetite  but  of  a 
few.  It  is  a  luxury  ;  it  is  a  privilege  •,  it  is  an  in- 
dulgence for  those  who  are  at  their  ease.  But  we  arc 
all  of  us  made  to  shun  disgrace,  as  we  are  made  to 
shrink  from  pain,  and  poverty,  and  disease.  It  is 
an  instinct ;  and  under  the  direction  of  reason,  in- 
stinct is  always  in  the  right.  I  live  in  an  inverted 
order.  They  who  ought  to  have  succeeded  me  are 
gone  before  me.  They  who  should  have  l;een  to  me 
as  posterity  are  in  the  place  of  ancestors.  I  owe  to 
the  dearest  relation  (which  ever  must  subsist  in  mem- 
ory)  that  act  of  piety,  which  he  would  have  per- 
formed to  me  ;  I  owe  it  to  him  to  shew  that  he  was 
not  descended  as  the  duke  of  Bcfiford  would  Jiave  it, 
from  an  unworthy  parent. 


■Stleit  Speeches.  341 

The  Importance  and  Blessings  of  Unkn. 

It  has  often  given  me  pleasure  to  ol)serve,  that  in- 
dependent America  was  iu)t  composed  of  detached 
and  distant  territories,  bnt  that  one  connected,  fer- 
tile, wide-spreadinor  country,  was  the  portion  of  our 
Mcstern  sons  of  Jihcrty.  Providence  has  in  a  partic- 
ular manner  blessed  it  with  a  variety  of  soils  and  pro- 
ductions, and  watered  it  with  innumerable  streams, 
for  the  delight  and  accommodation  of  its  iuha!)ilants. 
A  succession  of  navigal)le  waters  forms  a  kind  of 
chain  round  its  borders,  as  if  to  bind  it  together  ; 
■while  the  most  noble  rivers  in  the  world,  running  at 
convenient  distances,  present  them  with  highways  for 
the  easy  communication  of  friendly  aids,  aud  the  mu- 
tual transportation  and  exchange  of  their  various 
commodities. 

With  equal  pleasure  I  have  as  often  taken  notice, 
that  Providence  has  been  pleased  to  give  this  one  con- 
nected country  to  one  united  people  ;  a  people  de- 
scended from  tlie  same  ancestors,  speaking  the  same 
language,  professing  the  same  religion,  attached  to 
the  same  principles  of  govtrnment,  very  similar  in 
their  manners  and  customs  ;  and  who,  by  their  joint 
counsels,  arms,  and  cHorts,  fighting  side  by  side, 
throu-ihoui  a  long  and  bloody  war,  have  nobly  estab- 
lished their  general  liberty  an^  independence. 
-  Tills  country  and  this  people  seem  to  have  heea 
raade  for  each  otiier;  and  it  appears  as  if  it  was  tlie 
design  of  Providence,  that  an  iuheritanee  so  proper 
and  convenient  fur  a  band  of  t)rethren,  united  to  each 
other  by  the  strongest  ties,  should  never  be  split  into 
a  number  of  unsocial,  jealous,  and  alien  sovereign- 
ties. 

Similar  sentiments  have  hitherto  prevailed  among 
all  orders  and  flenominations  of  men  among  us  To 
all  general  purposes,  we  have  uniformly  been  one  peo- 
ple liacJb  individual  citizen  every  where  enjoying 
the  same  national  rights,  privileges,  and  protection. 
As  a  nation,  we  have  mad*  peace  and  war  .  as  a  na< 
Dd2 


312  Select  Spcsches. 

tion,  we  have  vanquished  our  common  enemies  :  as 
a.  nation,  we  have  formed  alliances,  and  made  trea- 
ties, and  tnlered  into  various  compacts  and  conven- 
tions wit!i  ft)reign  stales. 

Queen  Ann,  in  her  letter  of  the  1st  July,  I70G,  to 
Ihe  Scotch  Parliament,  makes  some  observations  on 
the  importaiue  of  the  Union  then  forming  between 
England  and  Scotland,  which  merit  our  attention. 

1  shall  present  the  public  with  oi>e  extract  from 
it.  "An  entire  and  perfect  union  will  be  the  solid 
foundation  of  lasting  peace  :  it  will  secure  your  reli- 
gion, liberty,  and  property  ;  remove  the  animosities 
amongst  yourselves,  and  the  jealousies  and  dilVer- 
cnces  betwixt  our  two  kingdoms.  It  must  increase 
your  strength,  riches,  and  trade  ;  and  by  this  union 
the  whole  island,  being  joined  in  alfertion,  and  free 
from  all  appreliensions  of  different  interests,  will  be 
enabled  to  resist  all  its  cjwviies.  We  most  earnestly 
recommend  to  you  calmness  and  unanimity  in  this 
great  and  Aveighty  aflair,  that  the  union  may  be 
brought  to  a  happy  conclusion,  being  the  only  effec- 
tnnl  way  to  secure  our  present  and  future  haj)piness  ; 
and  disappoint  the  designs  of  our  and  your  enemies, 
who  will,  doubtless,  on  this  occasion,  nsc  their  nt- 
viost  endeavours  to  prevent  or  deliVj  this  nnion.^^ 

A  strong  sense  of  the  value  and  blessings  of  Union 
induced  the  people,  at  a  very  early  period,  to  institute 
a  federal  government  to  preserve  and  perpetuate 
it.  They  formed  it  almost  as  soon  as  they  had  a  \)o- 
litical  existence  ;  nay,  at  a  time,  when  their  haiiita- 
tions  were  in  flames,  when  many  of  them  were  bleed- 
ing in  the  field. 

It  is  worthy  of  remark,  tliat  not  only  the  first,  but 
every  succeeding  Cosigress,  as  well  as  the  Convention, 
invariably  joined  with  the  people  in  thinking  that  the 
prosperity  of  America  depended  on  its  Union.  To 
preserve  and  perpetuate  it,  was  the  great  object  of  the 
people  in  forming  the  Convention  ;  and  it  is  also  the 
great  object  of  the  plan  which  tJie  Convention  has  ad- 
vised them  to  adopt.     With  what  propriety,  tlicre- 


Select  Speeches.  343 

fore,  or  for  wliat  good  purposes,  arc  atJempts  at  llw's 
particular  period  urule,  /)y  some  men,  to  depreciate 
tlie  iinponaii!'e  of  the  Ui»ion  ?  or  why  is  it  suggested 
that  three  or  four  confederacies  would  be  better  than 
one?  1  ani  persuaded  iu  my  own  mind,  that  the  peo- 
ple have  always  thouj:;lit  ri:4;ht  on  tliis  subject,  and  that 
their  universal  and  uniform  attachment  to  the  cause 
of  the  Union,  rests  on  great  and  weighty  reasons. 

They  who  promote  the  idea  of  substituting  a  num- 
])er  of  distinct  confederacies  in  the  room  of  tiie  plan 
of  the  Convention,  stem  clearly  to  foresee  that  the 
rejection  of  it  uould  put  the  cotiiiniiancc  of  the 
Uiion  in  the  utmost  jeopiifdy  :  that  certainly  would 
be  tlift  case  ;  and  I  sincerely  wish  that  it  may  be  as 
clearly  foreseen  by  every  good  citizen,  that  wiienever 
the  di solution  of  the  Union  arrives,  America  will 
liavc   reason    to  exclaim,  in  the  words  of  the  Toet, 

"  FaKEWELL  !    A  LO:vG  F.VREW£LL,   TO  ALL   MY  0U£AT- 

xnss  ?" 


SECTION  IV. 

On  the  DaTigcr  of  IJ'ar  bctvcecn  the  States. 

If  these  states  should  either  be  wholly  disunited, 
or  only  united  in  partial  confederacies,  a  man  must 
be  far  gone  in  Utopian  speculations  who  can  serious- 
ly doubt  that  the  subdivisions  into  which  they  mie:ht 
be  thrown,  would  have  fiequent  and  violent  contests 
uith  each  other.  To  presume  a  want  of  (uotives  for 
such  contests,  as  an  argument  against  their  exists  sue, 
would  be  to  forget  that  men  are  ambitious,  '.i-  die- 
live,  and  rapacious.  To  look  for  a  continuation  of 
Jiarmony  between  a  number  of  independent  uncon- 
nected sovereignties,  situated  in  the  same  neighbour- 
hood, would  be  to  disregard  the  uniform  cofsrse  of 
Lumau  events,  and  to  set  at  defiance  the  accumulated 
experience  of  ages. 


Sii  Select  Speeches. 

Tlie  causes  of  hostility  amoniif  nations  are  intnime- 
rable.  There  are  some  wiiicli  have  a  gciural  and  al- 
most constant  operation  u[)on  tiie  collective  bodies  of 
society.  Of  tliis  description  are  the  love  of  power, 
or  the  desire  of  pre  eininen 'e  and  dominion — the 
jealousy  of  power,  or  the  desire  of  equality  and 
safety.  There  are  otiiers  which  have  a  more  circum- 
scribed, though  an  eqnally  operative  influence,  with- 
in their  spheres  :  such  are  the  rivalships  and  coinpc- 
titioiis  of  commerce  between  commercial  nations. 
And  there  are  others,  not  less  numerous  than  either 
of  the  former,  which  take  their  origin  entirely  in  pri- 
vate passions  ;  in  the  attachments,  enmities,  inte- 
rests, hopes,  and  fears,  of  leading  individuals  in  the 
communities  of  which  tiiey  are  members-  IMen  of 
this  class,  whether  the  favourites  of  a  kiiigor  of  a 
people,  have  in  too  many  instances  abused  the  con- 
fidence they  possessed  ;  and  assuming  the  pretext  of 
sorce  public  motive,  have  not  scrupled  to  sacriace  the 
national  iranqnility  to  personal  advantage,  orperson- 
al  gratiiication. 

To  multiply  examples  of  the  agency  of  personal 
f?onsiderations  in  the  production  of  great  national 
events,  either  foreign  or  domestic,  according  to  their 
direction,  would  be  an  unnecessary  waste  of  time. 
Those  who  have  but  a  superficial  acquaintance  with 
the  sources  from  which  they  are  to  be  drawn,  will 
themselves  recollect  a  variety  of  instances  ;  and 
those  wIjo  have  a  tolerable  knowledge  of  human  na- 
ture, will  nut  stand  in  need  of  such  lights,  to  form 
their  opinion  either  of  the  reality  or  extent  of  that 
agency. 

From  what  has  taken  place  in  other  countries, 
^vho'se  situations  have  borne  the  nearest  resemblance 
to  our  own,  what  reason  can  we  have  to  confide  in 
those  reveries,  which  wculd  seduce  us  into  the  ex- 
pectation of  peace  and  cordiality  between  the  mem- 
bers of  the  present  confederacy,  in  a  state  of  separa- 
tion ?  Have  we  not  already  seen  enough  of  the  falla- 
cy and  extravagance  of  those  idle  theories  which 


Select  Speeches.  S45, 

have  amused  us  with  promises  of  an  exemption  from 
tiie  imperfections,  the  weaknesses,  and  the  evils  inci- 
dent to  society  in  every  shape?  Is  it  not  umc  to 
awake  from  the  deceitful  dream  of  a  golden  age,  and 
to  adopt  as  a  practical  maxim  for  the  direction  of  our 
political  conduct,  that  «c,  as  well  as  the  other  inha- 
l)itants  of  the  glolie,  arc  5ct  remote  from  the  happy 
empire  of  perfect  wisdom  and  perfect  virtue  ? 

So  far  is  tlie  general  sense  of  ntankind  from  corres- 
ponding with  the  tenets  of  those,  who  endeavour  to 
lull  asleep  our  apprehensions  of  discord  and  hostility 
between  the  States,  in  the  event  of  disunion,  tliat  it 
has,  from  long  observation  of  the  progress  of  society ». 
become  a  sort  of  axiom  in  politics,  that  vicinity  or 
nearness  of  situation,  constitutes  nations  natural  ene- 
mies. An  intelligent  writer  expresses  himself  on 
this  sn])jeet  to  this  e fleet :  "NEicHBOuurKG  katioss 
(says  he,)  are  naturally  ekemies  of  each  other,  un- 
less their  common  v.eakness  forces  them  to  league  in 
a  coNFEUERATE  REPUBLIC,  and  tlicir  constitution 
prevents  the  diflcrenccs  that  neighbourhood  o(casions> 
extinguishing  that  secret  jealousy,  which  disjjoses  all 
states  to  aggrandize  themselves  at  the  txper.ce  of 
their  neighbours."  This  passage,  at  the  same  tiaie, 
points  out  the  evil  and  suggests  the  Er.JMEuy, 


SECTION  V. 

Subject  Continued, 

It  is  sometimes  asked,  with  an  air  of  seenung 
triumph,  what  inducements  the  states  could  have,  if 
disunited,  to  make  war  upon  each  other?  It  would 
he  a  full  answer  to  this  question  to  say, — precisely' 
the  same  inducements  which  have,  at  dijfierent  time?, 
deluged  in  blood  all  the  nations  in  the  world-  But 
tnifortunately  for  us,  the  question  admits  of  a  more 


3i6  Select  Speeches. 

particular  answer.  There  arc  causes  of  diiTerence 
within  our  ini!uediate  conlemplation,  of  the  tenden- 
cy of  wliieh,  even  under  the  restraints  of  a  federal 
constitution,  we  have  had  sufiicient  experience  to  en- 
able us  to^form  a  j  idgment  of  wiiat  might  be  expect- 
ed, if  those  restraints  were  removed. 

Territorial  disputes  have,  at  all  times,  been  found 
one  of  the  most  fertile  sources  of  hostility  among  na- 
tions. Perliaps  the  greatest  j)rop()rtion  of  the  Avars 
that  liave  desolated  tiie  earth  have  sprung  from  this 
origin.  TJiis  cause  would  exist,  aurjng  us,  in  full  force. 
We  have  a  vast  tract  of  unsettled  territory  within 
the  boundaries  of  the  United  States.  There  still  arc 
discordant  and  unsettled  claims  between  several  of 
them  ;  and  tlie  dissolution  of  the  union  would  lay  a 
foundation  for  similar  claims  between  them  all. 

In  the  wide  field  of  western  territory,  therefore, 
we  perceive  an  ample  tlieatre  for  hostile  pretensions, 
without  any  umjnre  or  common  jcidge  to  interpose 
between  the  contending  parties  To  reason  from  the 
past  to  the  future,  we  shall  have  good  ground  to  ap- 
prehend, that  tlse  sword  would  some  times  be  appeal- 
ed to  as  the  arbiter  of  their  differences.  The  circum- 
stances of  the  dispute  between  Connecticut  and  Penn- 
sylvania, respecting  the  lands  at  Wyorair.g,  admon- 
ish ns  not  to  he  sanguine  in  expecting  an  easy  accorii- 
modation  of  such  diiTerences.  The  articles  of  confe- 
deration o!>iiged  the  parties  to  siil)mit  the  matter  to 
the  decision  of  a  federal  court.  The  submission  was 
made,  and  I'le  court  decided  in  favor  of  Pennsylva- 
nia. But  Connecticut  gave  strong  indications  of  dis- 
satisfaction with  that  dclernn'nalion  ;  nor  did  she 
appear  to  be  entirely  resigned  to  it,  till  by  iiegocia- 
tiou  and  management,  something  like  an  equivalent 
was  found  for  the  loss  sl-c  supposed  herself  to  have 
sustained.  Nothing  here  said,  is  intended  to  convxj' 
the  slightest  censure  on  the  conduct  of  that  state — 
She,  no  doubt,  sincerely  !)elieved  herself  to  have  been 
inj  >red  by  tiie  decision  ;  and  states,  like  individual-!, 
acquiesce  with  j;reat  reluctance,  in  determinations  to 
their  ilisadvantai^e. 


Select  Spccchca.  347 

The  competitions  of  coiniucrce  would  he  another 
fruitful  source  of  coiilcniiou.  The  states  less  favor- 
ably cir  •umstaiK  ed,  wouhl  be  desirous  of  escaping 
from  tlie  disadvantages  of  local  situation,  and  of 
sharing  in  the  advantages  of  their  more  fortunate 
neighbours.  Ea».'!i  state,  or  separate  confederacy, 
would  pursue  a  system  of  conunertial  polity,  peculiar 
to  itself.  This  would  occasion  distinctions,  perfer- 
cnces  and  exclusions,  which  would  beget  discontent. 
TJie  i.abits  of  intercourse,  on  the  basis  of  equal  pri- 
vileges, to  which  we  have  been  accustonierl  from  the 
earliest  settlement  of  tlie  country,  would  give  a  keen- 
er ed'-;e  to  tliose  causes  of  disrontent,  than  they 
would  naturally  have,  independent  of  this  circum- 
stance, ii'c  s/iould  be  rcadij  to  dchomrmitc  injuries^ 
those  things  which  ivcre  in  na/i/?/  the  jnstijiaOle  acts 
of  indrpendtnt  sovrrdghtics  (onsiiUing  a  disiii.ct  in- 
terest The  spirit  of  enterprise,  A\hich  characteri- 
zes the  commercial  part  of  America,  has  left  no  oc- 
casion of  displayiiig  itself  unimprovtd.  ft  is  not  at 
all  probable,  that  this  unbridled  spirit  would  pay 
much  respect  to  those  regulations  of  trade,  by  w  hich 
panicular  states  might  endtavour  to  secure  exclusive 
benefits  to  their  own  citizens.  The  in fi actions  of 
these  regulations  f)n  one  side;  tl;e  eflor'.s  to  prevent 
and  repel  them  on  the  oilier,  would  naturally  lead  to 
outrages,  and  these  to  reprisals  and  wars. 

The  public  debt  of  the  Union  would  he  a  further 
cause  of  collision  between  the  separate  stales  or  cdd- 
federavics.  The  apportionment,  in  the  first  instance, 
and  the  progressive  extingiiishiucnt,  afierwards, 
would  he  alike  productive  of  ill  liuuiour  and  animosi- 
ty. How  would  it  he  possible  to  agree  upon  a  rillc 
of  apportionment,  satisfactory  to  all?  i'here  is  scarce- 
ly any  that  can  he  proposed,  which  is  etitirely  free 
from  real  objections.  These,  as  usual,  Mouid  be  ex- 
aggerated by  the  advirse  interests  of  tiie  parties. 

If  even  the  rule  adopted  s'louid  in  practice  just ify 
the  equality  of  its  priiicip'e,  still  delinquencies  in  [)ay- 
iiientj  on  the  part  of  stf:iie  of  the  states,  wou'd  result 


34!8  Select  Speeches. 

from  a  diversity  of  other  causus — the  real  deficiency 
of  resources-,  the  iiiis!naria.Q;tmcnt  of  their  finarnes  ; 
accidental  disorders  ill  t!je  administratioii  of  the  gov- 
ern icent  ;  aiid  in  addition  to  the  rest,  the  reluctauce 
with  uhich  men  commonly  part  with  money,  for  pur- 
poses that  have  outlived  the  exigent  ies  which  produc- 
ed them,  and  interfere  with  the  supply  of  immediate 
wants.  Delinquencies,  from  whatever  causes,  would 
be  productive  of  complaints,  recriminations,  and 
quarrels.  TJ^ere  is,  perhaps,  nothing  more  likely  to 
disturb  t!ie  Iranqui'lity  of  nations,  than  their  being 
hound  to  mutual  contributions  for  any  common  ob|cct, 
which  does  not  yield  an  ecpal  and  coincident  benefit. 
For  it  is  an  observation  as  true  as  it  is  tri'e,  that  there 
is  nothing  men  dillerso  readily  about  as  the  payment 
of  money. 

America,  if  nc^t  connected  at  all.  or  only  by  the 
feeble  tie  of  a  simple  Ica,a:ue  ofi'cnsive  and  defensive, 
would,  J^iy  the  operation  of  such  opposite  and  jarring 
alliances,  be  gradually  entanghd  in  all  the  pernicious 
iafjvrinths  of  European  politics  and  wars  ;  and  by 
the  destructive  contentions  of  the  pans  into  which 
s!ie  was  divided,  would  ()e  likely  to  become  a  prey  to 
t!ie  artifices  and  machinations  of  powers  ecjually  the 
enemies  of  them  all.  Divide  et  impcra  must  be  the 
molto  -of  every  nation  that  either  hates  or  fears  us. 


SECTION  Vf. 

Character  of  Mo&es. 


Asio^rc;  those  occasions,  wdiich  Iiave  lifted  man 
above  his  ordinary  sphere,  noi;e  have  displayed  with 
more  splendor,  either  talents,  or  virtues,  than  the  rev- 
olutions of  relieion  and  empire.  The  conquest  of  na- 
tions, and  the  subversion  of  governments,  formed,  as 
well  as  exhibited,  Nebuchadnezzar,  Cyrus,  Alex?.n- 


Select  Speeches,  349 

*i€r,  Hannibal,  Cajsar,  Timur-bec,  Kouli  Kli^n,  Fred- 
eric 2(1.  Ilyfler  Ali,  and  various  others  of  a  similar 
character.  To  all  these  the  pride  of  victory,  the  ex- 
tension of  conquest,  and  the  increase  of  dominion, 
rose  in  full  view  ;  and,  ^rith  a  fascination  wholly  irre- 
sistible, prompted  them  to  contrive,  to  dare,  and  to 
attempt,  beyond  the  limits  of  ordinary  belief.  When 
we  contemplate  these  men,  however,  our  admiration 
is  always  mingled  with  disgust  ;  an<l  the  few  things 
in  their  characters,  which  claim  esteem,  are  lost  in 
the  multitude  of  those,  which  force  abhorrence.  The 
lustre  slied  around  them  is  gloomy  and  dismal  ;  a  glare 
of  Avernus  ;  a  "  darkness  visible  ;"  at  which  the  eye 
gazes  with  a  mixture  of  astonishment  and  horror. 
We  sicken,  while  we  read  their  exploits  ;  and  blusli, 
that  such  scourges  of  the  world  should  have  claimed 
a  common  nature  with  ourselves. 

But  there  have  been  happier  occasions  for  calling 
into  action,  and  into  light,  the  snperiour  faculties  of 
man.  Empire  and  religion  have,  at  times,  changed 
for  the  better.  Men  have  arisen,  whom  the  world 
has  not  only  admired,  but  revered,  and  loved  ;  to 
whom  applause  was  not  the  mere  outcry  of  astonish- 
ment, but  the  silent  and  steady  testimony  of  the  un- 
derstanding, the  cheerful  and  instinctive  tribute  of  the 
heart.  When  oppression  was  to  be  resisted,  govern- 
ment to  be  reformed,  or  the  moral  state  of  mankind 
to  be  renewed,  the  Rnlcr  of  the  universe  has  always 
supplied  the  means,  and  the  agents.  Where  to  the 
human  eye  the  whole  face  of  things  has  worn  an  uni- 
form level ;  where  every  family  was  lost  in  insignifi- 
cance,  and  every  citizen  was  a  peasant,  and  a  slave  ; 
energy,  asleep  utidcr  the  pressure  of  weary  circum- 
stances, and  talents,  veiled  by  humhie  and  hopeless 
obscurity,  have  been  roused  into  action,  and  pushed 
forward  to  distinction  and  glory. 

Among  the  men,  who,  at  such  periods,  have  riseni 
to  eminence,  the  prophet  Moses,  Is  u-quc^tionably 
the  first.  In  all  the  talents  which  culargc  the  hnraari 
miud,  and  all  the  virtues  which  enuoble  the  huruda 

Eg    . 


S50  SeUci  Speeches. 

heart,  in  the  aniiableness  of  private  life  and  the  digni- 
fy of  a  ruler,  in  dangers  hazarded  and  diiBcuIiies 
overcome,  in  splendor  of  destination  and  tlie  enjoy- 
ment, and  proofs  of  divine  complacency,  he  is  clearly 
^rithout  a  rival.  Companions,  perhaps  superiors,  he 
may  find  in  some  single  ualk  of  greatness  ;  but  in 
Llie  whole  progress  he  is  hitherto  alone. 

For  this  pre  eminence  he  was  plainly  fitted  by  na- 
ture, andeducaiion,  by  the  manner  of  his  life,  and  the 
field  of  bis  employment.  Born  %vith  a  soul  superior 
to  his  kind,  educated,  in  tlie  first  school  of  wisdom, 
trained  to  arms,  and  to  policy,  in  the  most  improved 
and  powerful  court  in  the  world,  and  nurtured  in  wis- 
dom still  more  sublime  in  the  quiet  retreats  of  Midi- 
an,  he  came  forth  to  his  great  scene  of  public  action, 
with  the  most  happy  preparation  both  for  success  and 
glory.  God  was  ahont  to  accomplish  a  more  impor- 
tant revolution  than  had  ever  taken  place,  and  had 
formed  and  finished  the  instrument,  which  so  illustri- 
ous a  design  required. 

In  whatever  course  of  life,  in  whatever  branch  of 
character,  we  trace  this  great  man,  we  find  almost  ev- 
ery thing  to  approve,  and  love,  and  scarcely  any  thing 
to  lament  or  censure.  When  we  see  him  at  the  hurn- 
ing  bush,  sacrificing  his  diftidence  to  his  duty,  and 
resolving  finally  to  attempt  the  first  great  liberation  of 
mankind  ;  wlieu  wt  accompany  him  to  the  presence  of 
J'haraoh,  and  hear  him  demand  the  release  of  the  mis- 
erable victims  of  his  tyranny  ;  when  we  behold  him 
laying  Egypt  waste,  and  snmmoningali  the  great  en- 
gines of  terror  and  destruction  to  overcome  the  obsti- 
nacy an<l  wirkedi^ess  of  her  monarch ;  when^we  follov/ 
liim  to  the  Red  Sea,  and  heliold  the  v/aicrs  divide  at 
his  com  maud,  to  open  a  passage  for  the  millions  of  Is- 
rael ;  and  at  the  same  command  reti^rn,  to  deluge  the 
Fgypiian  host  ;  wJien  we  trace  him  through  the  won- 
ders of  Sinai,  and  of  tlic  wikierness  ;  when  v.c  mark 
his  stendy  fi'th  in  Goil,  his  undonljiing  obedience  to 
every  divine  comniaad,  his  unexampled  patriotism, 
immovral^le  hv  ingratitude,  rebr.'lion,  and  insult,  hi? 


Select  Speeches.  351 

cheerful  conimnication  of  every  office  of  power  and 
profit  to  others,  and  his  equally  cheerful  exclusion  of 
his  own  decendants  from  all  places  of  distinction  ; 
when  we  consider  his  glorious  integrity  iu  adhering 
always  to  the  duties  of  his  office,  unsedaced  by  power 
and  splendor,  unmoved  by  national  and  singular  hona- 
age,  unawed  by  faction  and  opposition,  undaunted  by 
danger  and  difiiculty,  and  unaltered  by  provocation, 
obloquy,  anrl  distress  ;  when  we  see  him  meek  beyond 
example,  and  patient  and  persevering,  through  forty 
years  of  declining  life,  in  toil,  hazard,  and  trial;  when 
we  read  in  his  writings  the  frank  re<^ords  of  his  own 
failings,  and  those  of  his  family,  friends,  and  nation, 
and  the  first  efforts  of  the  historian,  the  poet,  the  ora- 
tor, and  the  lawgiver  ;  when  we  see  all  the  duties  of 
self-government,  benevolence,  and  piety,  which  he 
taught, exactly  displayed  in  a  life  approximating  to  an- 
gelic virtue;  when  we  behold  him  the  deliverer  of  his 
nation,  the  restorer  of  truth,  the  pillar  of  righteous- 
ness, and  the  reformer  of  mankind  ;  his  whole  char- 
acter shines  with  a  radiance,  like  the  splendour,  which 
his  face  derived  from  the  Son  of  Righteousness, and 
on  which  the  human  eye  could  not  endure  to  look. 
He  is  every  where  the  same  glorious  person  ;  the  man 
of  God  ;  selected  from  the  race  of  Adam  ;  called  up 
into  the  mountain  that  burned  with  fire;  ascending  to 
meet  his  Creator  ;  embosoming  himself  in  the  clouds 
of  Sinai;  walking  calmly  onward  through  the  thun- 
ders an<l  lightnings  ;  and  serenely  advancing  to  the 
immediate  presence,  and  converse  of  Jehovah.  lie 
is  the  greatest  of  all  prophets  ;  the  first  type  of  the 
Saviour;  conducted  to  Pisgah  ;  unclothed  of  mortal 
Hesh,  and  entombed  in  the  dust,  f)y  the  immediate 
hand  of  the  Most  High. 


^ 


3.3;3  Select  Speeches. 

SECTION  VII. 

The  Force  of  Talcrds, 

Talents,  wherever  they  have  had  a  suitable  thea* 
tre,  have  never  failed  to  emerge  from  obscurity,  aud 
assume  theirproperrankiii  the  estimationoftheworld. 
The  celebrated  Camden,  is  said  to  have  been  the  ten- 
ant of  a  garret.  Yet  from  the  darkness,  poverty,  and 
ignominy,  of  this  residence,  he  advanced  to  distinc- 
tion and  wealth,  and  graced  the  first  offices  and  titles 
of  our  island.  It  is  impossible  to  turn  over  the  Brit-^ 
ish  Biograpliy,  without  being  struck  and  charmed  by 
the  niultitucfe  of  correspondent  examples  ;  a  venera- 
able  groupe  of  novi  homines,  as  the  Romans  called 
Ihcm  ;  men,  who,  from  the  lowest  depths  of  obscurity 
and  want,  and  w  ilhout  even  the  infiuence  of  a  patron, 
have  risen  to  the  first  honours  of  their  country,  and 
founded  their  own  families  anew.  In  every  nation, 
and  in  every  age,  great  talents,  thrown  fairly  into  the 
point  of  puhlic  observation,  will  invariably  produce 
the  same  ulilmale  effect.  The  jealous  pride  of  power 
may  attempt  to  repress  and  crush  them  •,  the  base  and 
malignant  rancoiir  of  impotent  spleen  and  envy  may 
strive  to  embarrass  and  retard  their  flight  :  but  these 
efforts,  so  far  from  atchieving  their  ignoble  purpose, 
so  far  from  producing  a  discernable  obliquity  in  the 
ascent  of  genuine  and  vigorous  talents,  will  serve  on- 
Jy  to  increase  their  momentum  and  mark  their  transit 
with  an  additional  stream  of  glory.  When  the  great 
earl  of  Chatham  first  made  his  appearance  in  the 
House  of  Commons,  and  began  to  astonish  and  trans- 
port the  British  Parliament,  and  the  British  nation, 
by  the  boldness,  the  force  and  range  of  his  thoughts, 
and  the  celestial  fire  and  pathos  of  bis  eloquence,  it  is 
well  known,  that  the  minister,  Walpole,  and  Lis  broth- 
er Horace,  (from  motives  very  easily  understood)  ex- 
erted all  their  wit,  all  their  oratory,  all  their  acquire- 
ments of  every  description,  sustained  and  enforced 


Select  Speeches.  353 

by  the  unfeeling-  "  insolence  of  office,"  to  lieave  a 
mountain  on  his  e^igantic  genius, anrl  hide  it  from  the 

world Poor  and  powerless  attempt  ! — The  tables 

were  turned.  He  rose  upon  them  in  the  might  and 
irresistible  energy  of  his  genius,  and  in  spite  of  all 
their  convolutions,  frantic  agonies  and  spasms,  he 
strangled  ihem  ami  their  whole  faction,  with  as  much 
ease,  as  Ifercules  did  the  serpent,  Python.  Who  can 
turn  over  the  debates  of  the  day,  and  read  the  account 
of  this  conflict  brtween  youthful  ardor  and  hoary 
headed  cunning  and  power,  without  kindling  in  the 
cause  of  the  tyro,  and  shouting  at  his  victory  ?'  That 
Ihey  should  have  attempted  to  pass  ofl'  the  grand,  yet 
solid  and  judi<ious  operations  of  a  mind  like  his,  as 
being  mere  theatrical  start  and  emotion  ;  the  giddy,, 
hair  brained  eccentric  it  ies  of  a  romantic  boy  !  That 
they  should  have  had  the  presumption  to  suppose 
themselves  capable  of  chaining  down  to  the  floor  of 
the  parliament,  a  genius  so  ellierial,  towetingand  sub' 
lime  !  Wiry  did  they  not,  in  the  next  breath,  by  way 
of  crowuing  the  climax  of  vanity,  bid  the  magnificent 
fire-ball  to  descend  from  its  exalted  and  appropriate: 
region,  and  perform  ita  splendid  tour  along  the  sur- 
face of  the  earth  ? 

Talents,  which  are  before  the- public,  have  nothing 
to  dread,  either  from  the  jealous  pride  of  i)ower,  or 
from  the  transient  misrepresentations  of  party,  spleen 
or  envy.  In  spite  of  opposition  from  any  cause, 
their  buoyant  spirit  will  lift  thera  to  tlieir  proper  grade 
— it  would  be  unjust  that  it  should  lift  tiiem  higher. 

It  is  truei  there  always  are,  and  always  will  be,  in 
every  society,  individuals,  who  will  fancy  themselves 
examples  of  genius  overlooked,  under-rated,  or  invi- 
diously oppressed.  But  the  misfortune  of  such  per- 
sons is  imputable  to  their  own  vanity,  aiid  not  to  tlie 
public  opinion,,  which  has  weighed  and  graduated 
them. 

In  spite  of  every  thing,  the  public  opinion,  will  fi- 
nally do  j'lstice  to  us  all.  The  man  v.ho  comes  fairly 
before  the  world,  and  who  possesses  the  great  and  vig- 
Ee:^ 


do  li  Select   Speeches'. 

orous  stamina  wljirn  entitle  hiin  to  a  niche  in  the  tem- 
ple of  glory,  has  no  reason  to  dread  the  ultimate  re- 
sult ;  however  slow  his  proa;re8s  may  he,  he  will,  in 
the  end,  most  induhitahly  receive  thai  distinction. 
While  the  rest,  "  the  swallows  of  scieiK.e,"  the  butter- 
flies of  genius,  may  flutter  for  their  spring  ;  but  they 
will  soon  pass  away  and  be  remembered  no  more. 
No  enterprising  man,  therefore,  (and  least  of  all,  the 
truly  great  man)  has  reason  to  droop  or  repine  at 
any  efforts  which  lie  may  suppose  to  be  made  with  the 
view  to  dej)resshim;  since  he  may  rely  on  the  univer- 
sal and  unchanging  truth,  that  talents,  w.hich  are  be- 
fore the  world,  will  most  inevitably  find  their  i)roj)er 
level ;  and  this  is,  certainly,  all  that  ajust  man  should 
desire.  Let,  then,  the  tempest  of  envy  or  of  malice 
howl  around  him.  His  genius  will  consecrate  him  : 
and  any  attempt  to  extinguish  that,  will  be  as  unavail- 
ing, as  would  a  human  eflbrt  "  to  quench  the  stars."' 


=*• 


SECTION  ViIL 


rlximcf  /rem    President  WAsmyiGTOii^s  Speech  to  the. 
frst  Co  tigress,  April  3UfA,  1781). 

With  the  impressions  under  which  I  have,  in  obe- 
dience to  the  public  summons  repaired  to  the  pres- 
ent station,  it  would  be  peculiarly  improptr  to  omit 
in  this  first  official  act,  my  fervent  supplications  to 
that  Almighty  Being  who  rules  over  the  universe, 
who  presides  in  the  councils  of  nations,  and  whose 
providential  aids  can  supply  every  human  defect,  that 
his  beuedjction  may  consecra'e  to  the  liberties  and 
happiness  of  the  people  of  the  United  States,  a  gov- 
ernment instituted  by  themselves,  and  may  enable 
every  instrument  eniployed  in  its  administration,  to 
excute  with  success,  tlie  functions  allotted  to  his 
charge.     In  tendering  this  homage  to  the  great  Au> 


Select  Speeches.  85J> 

thor  of  every  public  and  private  good,  I  assure  my- 
self tliat  it  expresses  your  sentiments  not  less  than 
my  own:  nor  those  of  my  fellow-citizens  at  large 
less  tlian  either.  No  people  can  f^e  bound  toackuowl- 
edgfi  and  adore  the  invisible  hand,  which  conducts 
the  affairs  of  men,  more  than  the  people  of  the  Uni- 
ted Stales.  Every  step  by  which  they  have  advan- 
ced  to  the  character  of  an  independent  nation,  seems 
to  have  been  distinguished  by  some  tok^n  of  provi- 
dential agency.  And  in  the  important  revolution 
just  accomplished  in  the  system  of  their  united  gov- 
ernment, the  tranfjuil  deliberations  and  voluntary  con- 
sent of  so  many  ilistinct  communities,  from  which 
the  event  has  resulted,  cannot  be  compared  with  the 
means  by  which  most  governments  have  been  estab- 
lished, without  some  return  of  pious  gratitude  along 
with  an  humble  anticipation  of  the  future  blessings 
which  the  past  seem  to  presage.  These  reflections, 
arisiug  out  of  the  present  crisii,  liave  forced  them- 
selves too  strongly  on  my  mind  to  be  siippressed.  You 
will  join  with  me,  I  trust,  in  tliinkiiJg  that  there  are 
Done  under  the  influcjice  of  wlifCh,  the  proceedings 
©f  a  new  and  free  govcrnfiient  can  more  auspiciously 
Goramence* 

By  the  article  estaJ^Iishing  the  oieculive  depart- 
ment, it  is  made  the  duty  of  the  president  "  to  re- 
commend to  your  consideration,  such  measures  as  he 
shall  judge  necessary  and  e:cpedleiit."  Tiie  circum- 
stances under  wjiich  I  now  meet  -you,  will  at({uit  me 
from  entering  into  that  subject  i'arlher  than  to"  refer 
you  to  tlie  great  constiluliunai  charier  under  which 
we  are  assejuiiled  ;  and  v.diich  ia  dehniiig  your  pow- 
ers, designates  the  ol)ject3  to  which  your  attention  is 
to  be  giveii-  It  will  be  morfccon&isteut  willi  th(isc 
circumstances,  and  far  more  congenial  with  the  feel- 
ings which  actuate  me,  to  substitute  in  place  of  a  re- 
commendation of  particular  measures,  the  tribut'j 
that  is  due  to  the  talents,  the  rectitude,  and  the  pa- 
triotism wliicii  adorn  the  characters  selected  to  devise 
suid. adopt  then:,     lu  these  hoiiouiablc  rjuaJilicaiiuns, 


3o6  Select  Speeches. 

I  behold  the  surest  pledges,  that  as  on  one  side,  no 
Jocal  prejudices  or  attachments,  no  separate  views 
nor  party  animosities,  will  misdirect  the  comprehen- 
sive and  equal  eye  which  ouglit  to  watch  over  this 
great  assemblage  of  communities  and  interests  :  So, 
on  another,  that  the  foundations  of  our  national  poli- 
cy will  be  laid  in  the  pure  and  immutable  principle^ 
of  private  morality  ;  and  the  pre-eminence  of  a  free 
government  be  exemplified  by  all  the  attributes  which 
can  win  the  affections  of  its  citizens,  and  command 
the  respect  of  the  world. 

1  dwell  on  this  prospect  with  every  satisfaction 
which  an  ardent  love  for  my  country  can  inspire  ; 
since  there  is  no  truth  more  thoroughly  established 
than  that  there  exists  in  the  economy  and  course  of 
nature,  an  indissoluble  union  between  virtue  and  hap- 
piness— between  duty  and  advantage — between  the 
genuine  maxims  of  an  honest  and  magnanimous  po- 
licy, and  the  solid  rewards  of  public  prosperity  and 
felicity.  Since  we  ought  to  be  no  less  persuaded 
that  the  propitious  smiles  of  Heaven  can  never  be  ex- 
pected on  a  nation  that  disregards  the  eternal  rules 
of  order  and  right  which  Heaven  itself  has  ordain- 
ed. And  since  the  preservation  of  the  sacred  fire  of 
liberty,  and  the  destiny  of  the  republican  model  of 
government^  are  justly  considered  as  deeply,  perhaps 
as  finally  staked,  on  the  experiment  entrusted  to  the 
hands  of  the  American  people. 

Instead  of  uiKlertaking  particular  recommendations 
in  which  I  could  be  guided  by  no  lights  derived  from 
official  opjK>rtunities>  I  shall  again  give  way  to  my 
entire  confiilence  in  your  discernment  and  pursuit  of 
the  public  good:  For  I  assure  myself,,  that  whilst 
you  carefully  avoid  every  alteration  which  might  en- 
danger the  benefits  of  an  united  and  effective  govern- 
ment, or  which  ought  to  await  the  future  lessons  of 
experience  ;  a  reverence  for  the  characteristic  rights 
of  freemen,  and  a  regard  for  the  public  harmony,  will 
sufficiently  influence  your  deliberations  on  the  ques- 
tion, how  far  the  fornier  can  be  more  irapregnably 


Select  Speeches.  357 

fortified,  or  the  latter  be  safely  and  more  adranta- 
geously  promoted. 

Having  thus  imparted  to  you  my  sentiments,  as 
they  have  been  awakened  by  the  occasion  which  brings 
us  together,  1  shall  take  my  present  leave  ;  but  not 
without  resorting  onee  more  to  the  benign  Parent  of 
the  human  race,  in  humble  supplication,  that  since  he 
has  been  pleased  to  favour  the  American  people  with 
opportunities  far  deliljerating  in  perfect  tranquillity, 
anddispositionsfor  deciding  with  unparralleled  unan- 
imity on  a  forai  of  government  for  the  security  of 
their  union,  and  the  advancement  of  their  happiness; 
so  his  divine  blessing  may  be  equally  conspicuous  in 
the  enlarged  views,  the  temperate  consultations,  and 
the  wise  measures  on  which  the  success  of  this  go- 
vernment must  depend. 


SECTION  IX. 


Select  Paragraphs— from  J f ashing f on'' s  Fareweli 
Address,  171)6. 

The  unity  of  government  which  constitutes  you 
one  people  is  a  main  pillar  in  the  edifice  of  your  real 
independence,  the  supportof  your  tranquillity  at  home, 
your  peace  abroad  ;  of  your  safely ;  of  your  pros- 
perity ;  of  that  very  liberty  which  you  so  highly 
prize.  But  as  it  is  easy  to  foresee,  that  from  diil'er- 
ent  causes  atid  from  dilTerent  quarters,  much  pains 
will  be  taken,  many  artifices  employed  lo  weaken  in 
your  minds  the  conviction  of  this  trutli ;  as  this  is 
*  the  point  in  your  political  fortress  against  which  t  c 
batteries  of  internal  and  external  eijemies  will  be 
most  constantly  and  actively  (though  often  covertly 
and  insidiously)  directed,  it  is  of  infinite  moment, 
that  you  should  properly  estimate  the  iruiTiense  value 
of  your  national  union  to  your  collective  and  indi- 
vidual happiness  ;  that  you  should  cherish  a  cordial. 


358  Select  Speeches, 

habitual  and  inimovaI)le  attachment  to  it ;  accusfora- 
ins;  yourselves  to  think  and  speak  of  it  as  the  pal- 
Jadium  of  your  political  safety  and  prosperity  ;  watch- 
ino:  for  its  preservation  with  jealous  anxiety  •,  dis- 
counieuanciiig  whatever  may  suggest  even  a  suspi- 
cion thai  it  can  iu  any  event  be  abandoned  ;  and  in- 
dignantly frowning  upon  tlie  first  dawning  of  cver*y 
attempt  to  alienate  any  portion  of  our  country  from 
the  rest,  or  to  enfeeble  the  sacred  ties  which  now 
link  together  the  various  parts. 

For  this  you  have  every  inducement  of  sympathy 
and  interest.  Citizens  hy  birth  or  cliolce,  of  a  com- 
mon country,  that  coniitry  has  a  right  to  concentrate 
your  affections.  The  name  of  American,  which  be- 
longs to  yon,  in  your  national  capacity,  must  always 
exalt  the  just  pride  of  patriotism,  more  than  any 
appellation  derived  from  local  discriminations.  With 
slig]it  shades  of  ciifierence,  you  have  the  same  reli- 
gion, manners,  habits  and  political  principles.  You 
have  in  a  common  cause  fought  and  triumphed  toge- 
ther ;  the  indept^ndance  and  liberty  yon  possess  are 
the  work  of  joint  councils,  and  joint  efforts,  of  com- 
mon dangers,  sufferings  and  successes. 

But  these  considerations,  however  powerfuHy  they 
address  themselves  to  sour  sensi!>ility,  are  greatly 
outweighed  by  those  which  apply  more  immediately 
to  3'our  interest. — Here  every  portion  of  our  country 
finds  the  most  commanding  motives  for  carefully 
guarding  and  presej-ving  llie  union  of  the  whole. 

Tiie  north,  in  an  unrestrained  intercourse  with  the 
^onth,  protected  by  the  ecfial  laws  of  a  common  go- 
vernment, finds  in  the  productions  of  the  latter,  great 
additional  resc  urces  of  maritime  and  commercial  en- 
terprise and  precious  materials  of  manufacturing  in- 
dustry— The  3Qxdh  in  t?!e  same  Intercourse,  bene6t- 
tiiig  by  the  agency  of  the  north  sees  its  agriculture 
grow  and  its  commerce  tApaml.  Turning  partly  in- 
to its  own  thaiinels  the  seamen  of  the  norths  it  finds 
its  particular  navigation  invigorated  •,  and  while  it 
contiibutes,  in  diffirejit  vays,  to  nourish  and  incxease 


?ieleci   Speeches.  359 

the  general  mass  of  the  national  navigation,  it  looks 
forward  to  the  pioiection  of  a  maritime  strength,  to 
which  itself  is  iinequally  adapted — The  east.,  'n\  ^ 
like  intercourse  wiili  the  west,  already  (iiids,  and  in 
the  progressive  iuiprovement  of  interior  communi- 
cations, by  laud  ainl  water,  will  moreaud  rcore  Cud 
a  valuable  vcut  for  tlie  commodilies  which  it  brings 
from  abroad  or  manufactures  at  h^'^^e. — The  ivcst 
derives  from  the  east,  supplies  rfqdit>ite  to  its  growth 
and  curafort — and  what  is  i){rhaps  of  still  greater 
consequence,  it  must  of  necessity  owe  the  secure  en- 
joyment of  indispeusalile  outlets  for  its  oun  produc- 
tions to  the  wei»-rht,  influence,  and  the  future  mari- 
time strength  »)f  the  Atiantic  side  of  the  union,  di- 
re^ ted  hv  an  indissoluble  community  of  interest  as 
one  nation. — Any  other  tenure  by  which  tlse  west  can 
hold  this  essential  advantage,  whether  derived  from 
its  own  separate  strength,  or  from  an  apostate  and 
unnatural  connection  with  any  foreign  power,  must 
be  m'nnsirally  precarious. 

While  then  every  part  of  our  countr}'  thus  feels  an 
immediate  and  paj-ticular  interest  in  union,  all  the 
parts  combined  cannot  fail  to  hrd  in  the  united  mass 
of  means  and  cflorts  greater  strength,  greater  resour- 
ces, proporlionabfy  greater  security  from  exKrnal 
danger,  a  less  frequent  interruption  of  tlieir  pca'C  by 
foreign  nations  , — and  what  is  of  inestlmal)le  v-^Iuc, 
they  must  derive  from  union  an  rxeniplion  from  those 
broils  and  wars  between  themselves,  uliicJi  so  fre- 
quently afilict  neighbouring  ctjiintrics,  not  licd  loge- 
tlicr  by  the  same  government ;  whi  h  thtirown  rival- 
ships  alone  would  be  sufiicient  to  produce,  but  wl."''-h 
opposite  foreign  alliances,  attaciimcnts  and  intriguexi 
■would  stimulate  and  embitter. 

In  contemplating  the  causv,.s  which  may  disturb  ov.r 
union,  it  occurs  as  a  ntatter  of  a  serious  concern, 
that  any  ground  should  have  been  furnished  {ox  cha- 
racterizing parties  by  gcogropldcal  discrimin?tious  ; 

riort/'.ern   aud     ioui/ien: <:tt>-rific     an?l    ive^t'rri ; — 

whence  designing  meu  niay  ejideavour  to  ei^cite  a  ).e- 


300  Select  Speeches, 

lief  that  there  is  a  real  diOercnce  of  local  interests 
and  views.  One  of  the  expedients  of  party  to  ac- 
quire influence,  within  particular  districts,  is  to  mis- 
represent the  opinions  and  aims  of  other  districts. 
You  cannot  shield  yourselves  too  much  against  the 
jealousies  and  heartburnings  which  spring  from  th^se 
misrepresentations  -,  tliey  tend  to  render  alien  to  each 
other  those  who  ouglit  to  be  bound  together  by  fra- 
ternal affection. 

All  o!)struclions  to  the  execution  of  the  laws,  all 
combinations  and  associations,  under  whatever  plau- 
sible cliaracter,  with  the  real  design  to  direct,  cou- 
troul,  counteract,  or  awe  the  regular  deliberations 
and  actions  of  the  constituted  authorities,  are  des- 
tructive of  the  fundamental  principles  of  our  govern- 
ment, and  of  fatal  tendency.  They  serve  to  organ- 
ize faction  ;  to  give  it  an  artificial  and  extraordinary 
force  ;  to  put  in  the  place  of  the  delegated  will  of  the 
nation,  the  will  of  a  party,often  a  small  but  artful  and 
enter;jriz'ng  minority  of  fhe  community;  and  accord- 
ing to  the  alternate  triumphs  of  different  parties,  to 
mai;e  tlie  pulilic  administration  the  mirror  of  the  ill- 
concerted  and  incongruous  projects  of  faction,  rather 
than  tlie  organ  of  consistent  and  wholesome  plans, 
digested  by  conmion  counsels  and  modified  by  mutu- 
al interests. 

Ilowfvcr  coi'Mnations  or  associations  of  the  above 
descriptii-n  rn^iy  now  aiid  then  answer  popular  ends, 
the}  are  Ii!:eiy,  in  the  course  of  time  and  things,  to 
becv)me  potent  ergines,  by  which,  cunning,  ambitious, 
and  ui}princi])U"d  njcn,  will  be  enabled  to  subvert  the 
power  of  the  pcoj)!e,  ar.d  to  usurp  fur  themselves  the 
reins  of  goveriiraont  ;  destroying  afterwards  the  very 
engines  vhich  have  lif((d  them  to  m^just  dominion. 

How  far  in  the  discharge  of  my  olficial  duties,  I 
Iiave  been  guided  by  the  principles  that  have  been  de- 
lineated^ tlic  public  records  and  other  evidences  of 
iry  conduct  must  w  h\-,crs  to  you  ai;d  lo  the  world.  To 
myself,  the  assurasice  <^f  my  own  conscience  is,  that 
1  have  at  least  Relieved  mystlf  to  be  guided  by  then?. 


THE  ORATOR, 


PART  J II. 


rrECES  IN  POETRY. 


General  Rules  for  Reading  Poetnj, 

RULE  I.  As  the  exact  tone  of  the  passion,  cmo- 
lion,  or  sentiment,  which  verse  excites,  is  not,  at 
the  coraraencenient  of  a  piece  with  \vhich  we  are  not 
acquainted,  easy  to  hit,  it  will  be  proper  to  begin  a 
poem  ill  a  simple  and  almost  prosaic  stN'le,  and  so  pro- 
i-ced  till  we  are  Avanned  by  the  subject,  and  feel  the 
passion  or  emotion  wc  wish  to  express. 

RULE  IL  Pronounce  poetry  with  that  measured, 
harmonious  flow,  which  distiiip;uishe5  it  from  prose. 
Avoid,  in  humouring  the  smoothness  and  melody  of 
verse,  all  monotony  sing-song,  and  bombastic  cant, 
which  too  often  usurp  the  place  of  graceful  and  har- 
monious reading-. 

RULE  III.  In  verse,  every  sylla])le  must  have  the 
same  accent,  and  every  word  tJic  same  emphasis  as  in 
prose.  If  by  observing  this  rule,  some  poetry  should 
be  reduced  to  prose,  the  fault  must  rest  with  the  poet, 
not  with  the  reader. 

In  the  first  example  which  follows,  the  word  as 
should  have  no  accent,  i.  e.  it  is  a  light  syllable  in 
both  lines — the  word  excellent  in  the  second,  and  do- 
qiie7ice  in  the  third  example,  must  have  the  accent 
upon  the  first  syllables,  and  not  upoo  the  last,  0.3  the 
verse  requires : 

Ff 


362  Rules  for  Reading  Voetry. 

Eye  nature's  walks,  shoot  folly  a^  it  flies, 
And  catch  the  manners  living  as  they  rise, 
Their  praise  is  still  the  style  is  excellent ; 
The  sense  they  humbly  take  upon  content. 
False  eloquence  like  the  prismatic  glass, 
Its  gaudy  colours  spreads  on  every  place.       • 

KULE  IV.  The  vowel  e,  which  is  frequently  cut 
ofif  and  supplied  by  an  apostrophe,  as  th',  ev'ry,  gen'- 
lous,  daug'rous,  &c.  ought  to  be  both  written  and 
pronounced. — Such  words  as  giv'n,heav'n,&c.  should 
have  the  c  in  the  last  syllable  written  but  not  pro- 
nounced.— To  should  not  be  written  f  but  to  and  also 
pronounced.  Why  the  present  poets  write  looked,  lov- 
ed, asked,  &c.  instead  of  look'd,  lov'd,  ask'd,  &c. 
when  the  verse  neither  admits  of  them,  nor  are  they 
ever  so  pronounced  in  prose  when  it  is  properly  read, 
is  a  query  I  leave  to  themselves  to  solve. 

RULE  V.  In  familiar,  strong,  argumentative  sub- 
jects, the  falling  inflexion  should  prevail,  being  more 
adapted  to  express  activity,  force,  and  precision  : 
whereas  light,  beautiful,  and  particularly  plaintive 
subjects,  naturally  take  the  rising  inflexion  as  more 
expressive  of  such  sentiments  and  feelings. 

RULE  VI.  Sublime,  grand,  and  magnificent  de- 
scription in  poetry,  frequently  require  a  lower  tone  of 
voice,  and  a  sameness  of  inflexion  approaching  to  a 
monotone. 

RULE  VII.  A  simile  in  poetry  must  be  read  in  a 
lower  tone  than  that  which  precedes  it. 

RULE  Vlir.  Where  tlicre  is  no  pause  in  the 
sense  at  the  end  of  a  verse,  the  last  word  must  have 
the  same  inflexion  it  would  have  in  prose. 

Over  our  heads  a  chrystal  firmament 
Whereon  a  sapphire  throne,  inlaid  with  pur'e 
Amber,  and  colours  of  the  flowery  arch. 


CHAP.  I. 

Narrative  Pieces. 


SECTION  I. 

The  following  Examples  contain  Verses,  the  sound 
of  which  is  an  Echo  to  the  Sense. 

Soft  and  Bough. 

Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows, 
And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  number  flows : 
But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 
The  hoarse  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar» 

Slow  Motion, 

When  Ajax  artrives  some  rock's  vast  weight  to  throw, 
The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  more  slow. 

Sfvift  and  Easy. 

Not  so  when  swift  Camilla  scours  the  plain. 
Flies  o'er  the  unbending  corn  and  skims  along  the 
main. 

Felling  Trees. 

Loud  sounds  the  axe  redoubling  strokes  on  strokes  : 
On  all  sides  round  the  forest  hurls  her  oaks 
Headlong.     Deep  echoing  groan  the  thickets  brown 
Then  rustling,  cracking,  cracking,  thunder  down. 

Sound  of  a  Bew  String. 


•The  string  let  fly, 


Twanged  short  and  sharp,  like  the  shrill  swallows  cry 


864  Narrative  Pieces, 

Scylla-and  Ckari/ddi^. 

JDire  Scylla  there  a  scene  of  horror  forms, 
And  here  Charybdis  fills  the  deep  with  storms. 
When  the  tide  rushes  from  her  rumbling  caves, 
The  rough  rock  roars  ;  tumultuous  boil  the 'waves. 

Boisterous  and  Gentle  Sounds. 

Two  craggy  rocks  projecting  to  tlie  main, 
The  roaring  winds  tempestuous  rage  restrain  : 
Within,  the  waves  in  softer  murmurs  glide, 
And  ships  secure  without  their  haulsers  ride. 

Laborious  and  Impef^ious  Motion.  , 

With  many  a  weary  step  and  many  a  groan, 
Up  the  high  hill,  he  heaves  a  huge  round  stone  ; 
The  huge  round  stone  resulting  with  a  bound, 
Thunders  impetuous  down   and  smokes  along  the 
ground. 

Regular  and  Slow  Movement. 

Frst  marcli  llie  heavy  mules  securely  slow  ; 
O'er  hills,  o'er  dales,  o'er  crags,  o'er  rocks  they  go. 

Slow  and  Diffiadt  Motion. 

A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song  ; 
That,  like  a  Avounded  snake,  drtlgs  its  slow  length 
along. 

A  Boclc  torn  from  the  Brow  of  a  Mountain. 

Sllll  gathering  force,  it  snokes,  and  urg'd  amain. 
Whirls,  leaps,  and  thunders  down,  impetuous  to  the 
plain. 


Nttrratlve  Pieces,  365 

Extent  and  Violence  of  the  Waves, 

The  waves  behind  impel  the  waves  before. 
Wide  rolling,  foaming  high,  and  tumbling  to  the 
shore. 

Pensive  Numbers. 

In  those  deep  solitudes  and  awful  cells, 
Where  heavenly- pensive  Contemplation  dwells. 
And  ever-musing  melancholy  reigns. 

The  Rage  of  Battle. 

Arras  on  armour  clashing  bray'd 

Horrible  discord  ;  and  the  madding  wheels 
Of  brazen  fury  rag'd. 

Sound  Imitating  Reluctance, 

For  who  to  dumb  forgetfulness  a  prey, 
Tiiis  pleasing  anxious  being  e'er  resign'd  : 
Left  the  warm  precincts  of  the  cheeiful  day, 
Nor  cast  one  longing,  lingering  look  behind. 


SECTION  II. 

Othello's  Apology. 

That  I  have  ta'en  away  this  old  man's  daughter, 
It  is  most  true  ;  true,  I  have  married  lier  \ 
The  very  head  and  front  of  ray  ofi'ending 
Hath  this  extent  ;  no  more.     Rude  am  I  in  speech, 
And  little  bless'd  with  the  set  phrase  of  peace  ; 
For  since  these  arms  of  mine  had  seven  years  pith, 
Till  now  some  nine  moons  wasted,  they  have  us'd 
Their  dearest  action  in  the  tented  field  ; 
And  little  of  this  great  world  can  I  speak, 
rf2 


866  Kanative  Pieces. 

Move  than  pertains  to  feats  of  broils  and  battle  ; 

And  therefore  little  shall  I  grace  my  cause, 

In  speaking  for  myself.     Yet,  by  your  patience, 

I  will  a  round  uuvarnish'd  tale  deliver, 

Of  my    whole   course    of  love  ;  what  drugs,  what 

charms, 
What  conjuration,  and  what  mighty  magic 
(For  such  proceedings  I  am  charg'd  withal) 

I  won  his  daughJer  with. 

Her  father  lov'd  me,  oft  invited  me. 
Still  questioned  me  the  story  of  my  life, 
From  year  to  year  ;  the  battles,  sieges,  fortunes, 
That  I  have  past. 

I  ran  it  through,  ev'n  from  my  boyish  days, 
To  the  very  moment  that  he  bade  me  tell  it. 
Wherein  I  spoke  of  most  disastrous  chances,       • 
Of  moving  accidents  by  flood  and  field  ; 
Of  hair- breadth  escapes  in  theimminent  deadly  breacli, 
Of  being  taken  by  the  insolent  foe, 
And  sold  to  slavery  ;  of  my  redemption  thence, 
And  with  it,  aii  my  travel's  history  : 
Wherein  of  antres  vast,  and  desarts  wild. 
Rough  quarries,  rocks,  and  hills,  whose  heads  toucia 

heaven, 
It  was  my  bent  to  speak. — AH  these  to  hear 
Would  Desderaona  seriously  incline. 
But  stili  the  house-afi'airs  would  draw  her  hence, 
Which  ever  as  she  could  with  haste  dispatch. 
She'd  come  again,  and  with  a  greedy  ear 
Devour  up  my  discourse  :  which  I  observing. 
Took  once  a  pliant  hour,  and  found  good  means 
To  draw  from  her  a  prayer  of  earnest  heart, 
That  I  would  all  ray  pilgrimage  dilate  ; 
Whereof  by  parcels  she  had  something  heard, 
But  not  distinctively.     I  did  consent. 
And  often  did  beguile  her  of  her  tears. 
When  I  did  speak  of  some  distressful  stroke 
That  my  youth  sufier'd.     My  story  being  done, 
She  gave  me  for  my  pains  a  world  of  sighs. 
She  "swore,  in  faith,   'twas  strange,   'twas  passing 

strange  j 


Narrative  Pieces.  367 

'Twas  pitiful,  'twas  wond'rous  pitiful 

She  vvish'cl  she  had  not  heard  it yet  she  wish'd 

That  Heaven  had  made  her  such  a  man  : she 

thank'd  me, 
And  bade  me,  if  I  had  a  friend  that  lov'd  her, 
I  sliould  but  teach  him  how  to  teli  my  story, 
And  that  would  woo  her.     On  this  hint  I  spake  ; 
She  lov'd  me  for  the  dangers  I  had  past ; 
And  I  lov'd  her,  that  she  did  pity  them. 
This  only  is  the  witchcraft  I  have  us'd. 


SECTION  III. 

Discourse  between  Adajji  and  Eve  retiring  to  ref,t. 

Now  came  still  evening  on  and  twilight  gray, 
Had  in  her  sober  livery  all  things  clad. 
Silence  accorapanicd  ;  for  beast  and  l>ird, 
They  to  their  grassy  couch,  these  to  their  nests 
Were  slunk  ;  all  but  the  wakeful  nightingale. 
She  all  night  long  her  amorous  descant  sung  : 
Silence  was  pleas'd.     Now  glow'd  the  firmament 
With  living  sapphires:  Hesperus,  that  led 
The  starry  host,  rode  brightest,  till  the  Moon, 
Rising  in  clouded  majesty,  at  length 
Apparent  queen  unveil'd  her  peerless  light, 
And  o'er  the  dark  her  silver  mantle  threv/. 

When  Adam  thus  to  Eve  :  "  Fair  consort,  the  hour 
Of  night,  and  all  things  now  retir'd  to  rest, 
JMind  us  of  like  repose  ;  since  God  hath  set 
Labour  and  rest,  as  day  and  night  to  men 
Successive  :  and  the  timely  dew  of  sleep, 
Now  falling  with  soft  slumberous  weight,  inclines 
Our  eye  lids.     Other  creatures  all  day  long 
Rove  idle  unemploy'd,  and  less  need  rest  : 
Man  hath  his  daily  work  of  Ijody  and  mind 
Appointed,  which  declares  his  dignity, 


26S  Narrative  Pieces. 

And  tlic  regard  of  Heaven  on  all  his  ways  ; 
While  other  animals  unaclive  range, 
And  of  their  doings  God  takes  no  account. 
To  morrow,  ere  fresh  IMorning  streak  the  east 
With  first  approach  of  lip;ht,  we  must  l)e  risen, 
And  at  our  pleasant  labour  :  to  reform 
Yon  flowery  arbors,  yonder  allies  green, 
Our  walk  at  noon,  with  bra;nches  over  j;rown, 
That  mock  our  scant  aian urine;,  aiul  require 
More  hands  than  ours  to  lop  tlielr  wanton  growth. 
Those  blossoms  also,  and  those  dropping  gums, 
That  lie  bestrown,  unsightly  and  unsmooth, 
Ask  ridi lance,  if  we  mean  to  tread  witJi  ease. 
Mean  while,  as  Nature  wills,  uight  bids  us  rest." 

To  whom  thus  Eve,  with  perfect  beauty  adcyn'd  : 
•'  My  author  and  disposer,  what  thou  bidst 
Unargu'd  I  obey  :  so  God  ordains 
With  thee  conversing  I  forget  all  time  ; 
All  seasons  and  their  change,  all  please  alike. 
Sweet  is  the  breath  of  morn,  her  rising  sweet, 
Willi  charm  of  earliest  birds  ;  pleasant  the  sun, 
When  first  on  this  delightful  land  he  spreads 
His  orient  beams,  on  herb,  tree,  fruit,  and  flower, 
Glistering  with  dew  ;  fragrant  the  fertile  earth 
After  soft  showers  ;  and  sweet  the  coming  on 
Of  grateful  evening  mild  ;  then  silent  night, 
With  this  her  solemn  bird,  and  this  fair  moon. 
And  these  the  gems  of  heaven,  her  starry  train  ; 
But  neither  breath  of  morn,  when  she  ascends 
With  charm  of  earliest  birds  ;  nor  rising  sun 
On  this  delightful  land  ;  nor  herb,  fruit,  flower. 
Glistering  with  dew  ;  nor  fragrance  after  showers; 
Nor  grateful  evening  mild  ;  nor  silent  night 
With  this  her  solemn  bird  -,  nor  walk  by  moon, 
Or  glittering  star-light,  without  thee  is  sweet. 
But  wherefore  all  night  long  shine  these?  for  whom 
This  glorious  sight,  when  sleep  hath  shut  aH  eyes  ?'* 

To  whom  our  general  ancestor  reply'd  : 
«*  Daughter  of  Gud  and  man,  accomplish'd  Eve, 
These  have  their  course  to  luiish  round  the  earth. 


Narrathe  Pieces.  8€I0 

JJy  morrow  evening  ;  and  from  land  to  land 
Jn  order,  though  to  nations  yet  unborn, 
Ministering  light  prepar'd,  they  set  and  rise  ; 
Lest  total  darkness  should  by  night  regain 
Her  old  possession,  and  extinguish  life 
In  nature  and  all  things  ;  which  these  soft  fires 
Not  only  enlighten,  but,  with  kindly  heat 
Of  various  influence,  foment  and  warm, 
Temper  or  nourish  ;  or  in  part  shed  down 
Their  stellar  virtue  on  all  kinds  that  grow 
On  earth,  made  hereby  aptcr  to  receive 
Perfection  from  the  sun's  more  potent  ray. 
These  then,  though  unbeheld  in  deep  of  night, 
Shine  not  in  vain  ;  nor  think,  though  men  were  none, 
Tliat  heaven  would  want  spectators,  God  want  praise: 
Millions  of  spiritual  creatures  walk  the  earth 
Unseen,  both  when  we  wake,  and  Mhen  we  sleep. 
All  these  with  ceaseless  praise  his  works  behold, 
J3othdayand  night.     How  often,  from  the  steep 
Of  echoing  hill  or  thicket  have  we  heard 
Celestial  voices  to  the  midnight  air, 
Sole,  or  responsive  each  to  others'  note, 
Singing  their  great  Creator  ?  Oft  in  bands, 
While  they  keep  watch,  or  nightly  rounding  walk 
VVitli  heavenly  touch  of  instrumental  sounds, 
In  full  harmonic  number  join'd,  their  songs 
Divide  the  night,  and  lift  our  tiioughts  to  heaven." 
Thus  talking  hand  in  hand  alone  they  pass'd 

On  to  their  blissful  bower 

There  arriv'd,  both  stood, 


Both  turn'd  :  and  under  open  sky  ador'd 

The  God  that  made  both  sky,  air,  earth,  and  heaven, 

Which  they  beheld,  the  moon's  resplendent  globe, 

And  starry  pole.     ♦*  Thou  also  mad'st  the  night. 

Maker  Omnipotent,  and  thou  the  day, 

Which  we,  in  our  appointed  work  eniploy'd, 

Have  finish'd,  happy  in  our  mutual  help, 

And  mutual  love,  the  crown  of  all  our  bliss 

Ordain'd  by  thee ;  and  this  delicious  place 

For  us  loo  large,  where  thy  abundance  wauls 


370  Didactic  Pieces, 

Partakers,  and  uncropt  falls  to  the  ground. 
But  thou  hast  promis'd  from,  us  two  a  race, 
To  fill  the  earth,  vrho  shall  with  us  extol 
Thy  goodness  infinite,  both  when  we  wake, 
And  when  we  seek,  as  now,  thy  gift  of  sleep." 


'CHAP.  II. 

Didactic  Pieces. 

SECTION  I. 

Not /ting  formed  in  Fain.  ■ 

Let  no  presuming  ioipious  railer  tax 
Creative  wisdom,  as  if  ought  was  form'd 
In  vain,  or  not  for  admirable  ends. 
Shall  little  haughty  Ignorance  pronounce 
His  works  unwise,  of  which  the  smallest  part 
Exceeds  the  narrow  vision  of  her  mind  ! 
As  if,  upon  a  full  proportion'd  dome. 
On  swelling  columns  heav'd,  the  pride  of  art  ? 
A  critic-fly,  whose  feeble  ray  scarce  spreads 
An  inch  around,  with  blind  presumption  bold, 
Should  dare  to  tax  the  structure  of  the  whole. 
And  lives  the  man,  whose  universal  eye 
Has  swept  at  once  the  unbounded  scheme  of  things 
Mark'd  their  dependance  so,  and  firm  accord, 
As  with  unfaultering  accent  to  conclude. 
That  this  availeth  nought  ?     Has  any  seen 
The  mighty  chain  of  beings,  lessening  down 
From  infinite  perfection,  to  the  brink 
Of  dreary  nothing,  desolate  abyss  ! 
From  which  astonish'd  thought,  recoiling,  turns? 
Till  then  alone  let  zealous  praise  ascend. 
And  hymns  of  holy  wonder,  to  that  Power, 
Whose  wisdom  shines  as  lovely  in  our  minds. 
As  on  our  smiling  eyes  his  servant  sun. 


Didactic  Pieces.  871 

SECTION  II. 

Indignant  Sentiments  on  National  Prejudices  and 
Hatred  ;  and  on  Slavery. 

Oh  for  a  lodge  in  some  vast  wilderness, 

Some  boundless  contiguity  of  shade, 

Where  rumour  of  oppression  and  deceit, 

Of  unsuccessful  or  successful  war, 

Might  never  reach  me  more.     My  ear  is  pain'd, 

My  soul  is  sick  with  every  day's  report 

Of  wrong  and  outrage  with  which  earth  is  fiU'd, 

There  is  no  flesh  in  man's  obdurate  heart, 

It  does  not  feel  for  man.     The  natural  bond 

Of  brotherhood  is  sever'd,  as  the  flax 

That  falls  asunder  at  the  touch  of  fire. 

He  finds  his  fellow  guilty  of  a  skin 

Not  colour'd  like  his  own  ;  and  having  power 

To  enforce  the  wrong,  for  such  a  worthy  cause 

Dooms  and  devotes  him  as  his  lawful  prey. 

Lands  intersected  by  a  narrow  frith 

Abhor  each  other.     Mountains  interposM, 

Make  enemies  of  nations,  who  had  else, 

Like  kindred  drops,  been  mingled  into  one. 

Thus  man  devotes  his  brother,  and  destroys  ; 

And  worse  than  all,  and  most  to  be  deplor'd. 

As  human  Nature's  broadest,  foulest  blot. 

Chains  him,  and  tasks  him,  and  exacts  his  sweat 

With  stripes,  that  Mercy,  with  a  bleeciing  heart, 

Weeps  when  slie  sees  inflicted  on  a  beast. 

Then  what  is  man  !  And  what  man  seeing  this. 

And  having  human  feelings,  does  not  blush 

And  liang  his  head,  to  think  himself  a  man  ? 

I  would  not  have  a  slave  to  till  my  ground, 

To  carry  me,  to  fan  me  while  I  sleep. 

And  tremble  when  I  wake,  for  all  the  wealth 

The  sinews  bought  and  sold  have  ever  earn'd. 

No  :  dear  as  freedom  is,  and  in  my  heart's 

Just  estimation  priz'd  above  all  price  ; 

I  had  much  rather  be  myself  the  slave, 


3r2  Didctcilc  IHecei, 

And  wear  the  bonds,  than  fasten  them  on  him. 
We  have  no  slaves  at  home — then  why  abroad? 
And  they  themselves  once  ferried  o'er  the  wave 
That  parts  iis,  are  emancipate  and  loos'd. 
Slaves  cannot  breathe  in  England  ;  if  their  lungs 
Receive  our  air,  that  moment  they  are  free  ; 
They  toucli  our  country,  and  their  shaci<les fall. 
That's  noble,  and  bespeaks  a  nation  proud 
And  jealous  of  the  blessing.     Spread  it  then, 
And  let  it  circulate  through  ev'ry  vein 
Of  all  your  empire,  that  where  Britain's  power 
Is  felt,  mankind  may  feel  her  mercy  too. 


SECTION  iir. 


lleflectlons  on  a  Future  State^  from  a  Review  oj 
Winter. 

'Tis  done!  dread  Winter  spreads  liis  latest  glooms, 

And  reigns  tremendous  o'er  the  conquer'd  year. 

JIow  dead  the  vegetable  kingdom  lies  ! 

How  dumb  the  tuneful  !     Horror  wide  extends 

His  desolate  domain.     Behold,  fond  man  ! 

See  here  thy  pictur'd  life  :  pass  some  few  years, 

Thy  flowering  sprinc;,  thy  summer's  ardent  strength. 

Tliy  sober  autumn  fading  into  age. 

And  pale  concluding  winter  comes  at  last, 

And  shuts  the  scene.     Ah  !    whither  now  are  fled, 

Those  dreams  of  greatness  ?  those  unsolid  hopes 

Of  happiness  ?  those  lons^ings  after  fame  ? 

Those  restless  cares  ?  those  busy  bustling  days  ? 

Those    gay- spent,    festive    niglits  ?     those    veering 

thoughts 
Lost  between  good  and  ill,  that  shar'd  thy  life  ? 
Ail  now  are  vanish'd  !  Virtue  sole  survives, 
Immortal  never-failing  friend  of  man, 
His  guide  to  happiness  on  high.     And  see  ! 


Didactic  Pieces,  S7S 

'Tis  coinc,  the  glorious  morn  !  tlie  second  birth 

Of  heaven,  and  earth  !  awak'niug  Nature  hears 

The  new-created  word  ;  and  starts  to  life, 

In  every  heighten'd  forra,  from  pairi  and  death 

For  ever  free.     The  great  eternal  scheme, 

Involving  all,  and  in  a  perfect  whole 

Uniting  as  the  prospect  wider  spreads, 

To  Reason's  eye  refin'd  clears  up  apace. 

Ye  vainly  wise  !  Ye  blind  presumptuous  !  now, 

Confonnded  in  the  dust,  adore  that  Power, 

And  Wisdom  oftarraign'd  :  see  now  the  cause 

Why  unassuming  Worth  in  secret  liv'd, 

And  dy'd  neglected  :  why  the  good  man's  share 

In  life  was  gall  and  bitterness  of  soul : 

Why  the  lone  widow  atul  her  orphans  pin'd 

In  starving  solitude  ;     while  Luxury, 

In  palaces,  lay  straining  her  low  thought, 

To  form  unreal  wants  :  v/hy  heaven-born  Truth, 

And  Bloderation  fair,  wore  the  red  marks 

Of  Superstition's  scourge  :  why  liceus'd  Pain, 

That  cruel  spoiler,  that  embosoni'd  foe, 

Imbilter'd  all  our  bliss.     Ye  good  distress'd  ? 

Ye  noble  few  ?  who  here  unbending  stand 

Beneath  life's  pressure,  yet  bear  up  a  while. 

And  what  your  bounded  view,  which  only  saw 

A  little  part,  deem'd  evil  is  no  more  : 

The  storms  of  wintry  time  will  quickly  pass, 

And  one  unbounded  spring  encircle  alL 


SECTION  IV. 
On  Verdjication. 


Many  by  Number  judge  a  Poet's  song  ; 
And  snwoth  or  rough,  with  them,  is  right  or  wrong; 
In  the  bright  xMuse  though  thousand  charms  cojispire. 
Her  voice  is  all  these  tuneful  fools  admire; 

G  g 


374  Didactic  Pieces. 

Who  haunt  Parnassus  but  to  please  their  ear,  ^ 

Not  mend  their  minds,  as  some  to  Church  repair       > 
Not  for  the  doctrine,  but  the  music  there.  3 

Tiiesc  equal  syllables  alone  require, 
Though  oft  the  ear  the  open  vowels  tire  ; 
\\  iulc  (xpiclives  their  feeble  aid  to  join; 
And  ten  low  words  oft  creep  in  one  dull  line  : 
While  they  ring  round  the  same  unvary'd  chimes, 
With  sure  returns  of  still  expected  rhymes  ; 
WJicre'er  you  iir.d  "  the  cooling  western  breeze," 
In  the  next  line,  it  "  whispers  through  the  trees  :" 
In  chrystal  streams  "with  pleasing  murmurs  creep,'* 
The  reader's  threatcn'd  (not  in  vain)  with  "  sleep  j" 
Then,  at  the  last  and  only  couplet  frauglit 
With  some  unmeaning  thing  they  call  a  thought, 
A  needless  Alexandrine  ends  the  song, 
That  like  a  wounded  snake, drags  its  slow  length  along. 
Leave  such  to  tune  their  own  dull  rhymes,  and  know 
What's  roundly  smooth,  or  languishingly  slow  ; 
And  praise  the  easy  vigour  of  a  line,  [join* 

Where  Denham's  strength,  and  Waller's  sweetness 
True  ease  in  writing  comes  from  art,  not  chance, 
As  those  move  easiest  who  have  learn'd  to  dance. 
'Tis  not  enough  no  harshness  gives  ollence, 
The  sound  must  seera  an  echo  to  the  sense  : 
Soft  is  the  strain  when  Zephyr  gently  blows, 
And  the  smooth  stream  in  smoother  number  flows  ; 
But  when  loud  surges  lash  the  sounding  shore, 
The  hoarse,  rough  verse  should  like  the  torrent  roar: 
W^hen  Ajax  strives  some  rock's  vast  Meight  to  throw, 
The  line  too  labours,  and  the  words  move  slow  ; 
Not  so,  when  swift  Camiiia  scours  the  plain, 
Fiieso'er  the  unbendingcorn,and  skims  along  the  main. 
Hear  how  Timotheus'  vary'd  lays  surprise, 
And  bid  alternate  passions  fall  and  rise  ! 
While,  at  each  change,  the  son  of  Libyan  Jove 
Now  burns  with  glory,  and  then  melts  with  love  ; 
Nov/  his  fierce  eyes  with  sparkling  fury  glow, 
Now  sighs  steal  out,  and  tears  begin  to  flow  : 
i*ersians  and  Greeks  like  turns  of  nature  found, 
And  the  Vicrld'6  victor  stood  su<bdu'd  by  Sound  ! 


Didactic  Pieces.  375 

SECTION  V. 

On  Pride. 

Of  all  the  causes,  which  conspire  to  blind 

]\Tan's  erring  judgment,  and  misguide  the  mind, 

AV^hat  the  weak  liead  with  strongest  bias  rules, 

Is  Pride,  the  never-failing  vice  of  fools. 

Whatever  Nature  has  in  worth  deny'd 

She  gives  in  large  recruits  of  needless  pride  ! 

For,  as  in  bodies,  thus  in  souls,  we  find 

What  wants  in  blood  and  spirits,  swell'd  with  wind. 

Pride,  where  wit  fails,  steps  in  to  our  defence. 

And  fills  up  all  the  mighty  void  of  sense. 

If  once  right  Reason  drives  that  cloud  away, 

Truth  breaks  upon  us  with  resistless  day. 

Trust  not  yourself;   but,  your  defects  to  knoiv. 

Make  use  of  every  friend — and  every  fue. 

A  little  learning  is  a  dangerous  thing  ; 

Drink  deep,  or  taste  not  the  Pierean  Spring 

There  shallow  draughts  intoxicate  the  brain  ; 

And  drinking  largely  sobers  us  again. 

Fir'd  at  first  sight  with  what  the  Muse  imparts, 

In  fearless  youth  vre  tempt  the  heights  of  arts. 

While,  from  the  bounded  level  of  our  mind, 

Short  views  we  take,  nor  see  the  lengths  behind ; 

But,  more  advanced,  behold,  with  strange  sur])rise, 

2^w  distant  scenes  of  endless  science  rise  ! 

Sd  pleas'd  at  first  the  towering  Alps  we  try, 

Mount  o'er  the  vales,  and  seem  to  tread  the  sky  ; 

Tlte  eternal  snows  appear  already  past, 

And  the  first  clouds  and  mountains  seem  the  last ; 

But  those  attain'd,  we  tremble  to  survey 

The  growing  labours  of  the  lengthen'd  way  ; 

The  increasing  prospect  tires  our  wandering  ejes  ; 

Hills  peep  o'er  hills,  and  Alps  on  Alps  arise. 


CHAP.  III. 

Descriptive  Pieces,  '  ^ 

SECTION  I. 

The  Morning  in  Summer, 

The  meek  ey'd  Morn  appears,  mother  of  d(^\Sy 
At  first  faint  gleaming  in  the  dappled  east  ; 
Till  far  o'er  elhersprea(!s  the  widening  glow  : 
And  from  before  the  lustre  of  her  face 
White  l:jreak  the  clouds  away.    With  quickened  step 
lirowa  jiight  retires-.  Young  Pay  pours  in  apaee, 
And  opens  all  the  lawny  prospect  wide. 
Tiie  dripping  rock,  the  mountain's  misty  top, 
Swell  on  the  sight,  and  brighten  with  the  dawn. 
Blue,  through  the  dusk,  the  smoaking  currents  shine  j 
And  from  the  bladed  neld  the  fearful  hare 
Limps,  awkward  :  while  along  the  forest-glade 
The  wild  deer  trip,  and  often  turning  gaze 
At  early  passenger.     Mosic  awakes 
The  native  voice  of  undissembled  joy  ; 
And  thick  around  the  woodland  hymns  arise. 
E.ous'd  by  the  cock,  the  so  on- clad  shepherd  leaves 
His  mossy  cottage,  where  with  Peace  he  dwells; 
And  from  the  crouded  fold,  in  order,  drives 
His  fioek  to  taste  the  verdure  of  the  IMorn. 
Falsely  luxurious,  will  not  man  awake  ; 
And,  springing  from  the  bed  of  sloth,  enjoy 
The  cool,  the  frai^rant,  and  the  silent  hour, 
To  meditation  due  and  sacred  song  ? 
For  is  there  auglit  in  sleep  can  cliarm  the  wise  ? 
To  lie  in  dead  oblivion, .losing  half 
The  fleeting  moments  of  too  short  a  life  ; 
Total  extinction  of  the  enlighten'd  soul ! 
Or  else  to  feverish  vanity  ali\^e, 
Wildcredj  and  tossing  through  distemper'd dreams? 


Descriptive  Pieces.  377 

Wlio  would,  in  such  a  gloomy  state,  remain 
Longer  than  Nature  craves  ;  when  every  Muse 
And  every  blooming  pleasure  waits  without, 
To  bless  the  wildly  devious  morning  walk? 


SECTION  II. 

The  Sahbath  Momins^. 


How  still  the  morning  of  the  hallowed  day  ! 
Mute  is  the  voice  of  rural  labour,  hush'd 
The  ploughboy's  whistle,  and  the  milkmaid's  song. 
The  scythe  lies  glitt'ring  in  the  dewy  vreath 
Of  tedded  grass,  mingled,  with  fading  flowers. 
That  yester-morn  bloom'd  waving  in  the  breeze  : 
Sounds  the  most  faint  attract  the  ear, — the  hum 
Of  early  bee,  the  trickling  of  the  de^r. 
The  distant  bleating,  midway  up  the  hill. 
Calmnesss  seems  thron'don  yon  unmoving  cloud. 
To  him  who  wanders  o'er  the  upland  leas. 
The  blackbird's  note  coracs  mellower  from  the  dale  ; 
And  sweeter  from  the  sky  the  gladsome  lark 
Warbles  his  heav'n  tun'd  song  ;  the  lulling  brook 
Murmurs  more  gently  down  the  deep-sunk  glen  ; 
While  from  yon  lowly  roof,  whose  curling  smoke 
O'erraounts  the  mist,  is  heard,  at  intervals, 
The  voice  of  psalms,  the  simple  song  of  praise. 

V/ith  dove-like  wings  Peace  o'er  yon  village  bropds  : 
The  dizzying  mill  wheel  rests  ;  theanvil's  din 
Hath  ceas'd  ;  all,  all  around  is  quietness. 
Less  fearful  on  this  day,  the  limping  hare 
Stops,  and  looks  back,  and  stops,  and  looks  on  man. 
Her  deadliest  fue.     The  toil-worn  horse,  set  free, 
Unheedful  of  the  posture,  roams  at  large  ; 
And,  as  his  stiff  unueildy  bulk  he  rolls, 
His  iron  arm'd  hoofs  gleam  in  the  raorning-raj. 
Gs2 


378.  l^escripllve  Pieces. 

But  chieriV  Man  the  day  of  rest  civjoys.. 
Hail,  Sabbath  !  tbee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  ddny. 
Oil  other  days,  the  man  of  toil  is  doom'd 
To  eat  his  joyless  bread,  lonely,  the  ground 
Eoth  seat  and  board,  screen'd  from  the  winter's  cold, 
And  summer's  heat,  by  neighbouring  hedge  or  tree; 
But  on  this  day,  cmbosora'd  in  his  home, 
He  shares  the  frugal  meal  with  those  he  loves  ; 
With  those  he  loves  lie  shares  the  heart- felt  joy 
Of  giving  thanks  to  God,  not  thanks  of  form, 
A  word  and  a  grimace,  but  rev'rentl}', 
Witli  covered  face  and  upward  earnest  eye. 

Hail,  Sabbath!  thee  I  hail,  the  poor  man's  day  i 
The  pale  mechanic  now  has  leave  to  breathe 
The  morning-air  pure  from  the  city's  smoke. 
While  Avand'ring  slowly  up  the  river-side. 
He  meditates  on  Him  whose  power  he  marks 
In  each  green  tree  that  proudly  spreads  the  bouglv 
As  in  the  tiny  dew-bent  flowers  that  bloom 
Around  the  roots  ;  and  while  he  thus  surveys 
"With  elevated  joy  each  rural  cliarm, 
He  hopes,  (yet  fears  presumption  in  the  hope,) 
To  reach  those  realms  where  Sabbath  never  ends* 


SECTION  III. 

Chahitt, 


A  Paraphrase  on  the  ISih  Chapter  of  the  First  Episths 
to  tlie  Corinthians. 

Did  sweeter  sounds  adorn  ray  flowing  tongue, 
Than  ever  man  pronounc'd,  or  angel  sung  ; 
Had  I  all  knowledge,  human  and  divine  ; 
That  Thought  can  reach,  of  Science  can  divine  ; 
And  had  I  power  to  give  that  knowledge  birth, 
In  all  the  speeches  of  the  babbling  earth  ; 
Did  Shadrach's  zeal  ray  glowing  breast  insjjire, 
To  weary  tortures,  and  rejoice  in  fire  ; 


I^GScriptihe  Pieces^  SX*); 

Or  bad  \  (ailU  like  that  which  Israel  saw, 
WhcJi  Moses  ga,ve  iheui  miracles,  and  law  : 
Yet,  gracious  Charity,  iudulgeui  guest, 
Were  not  thy  power  exerted  in  my  breast. ; 
Those  speeches  wouki  send  up  un  heed  el  j;rayer  , 
That  scorn  of  life  would  be  but  wild  do^wiir  ; 
A  cymbal's  sound  were  better  than  my  voice  ; 
My  faith  were  form  ;  my  eloquence  were  noise. 

Charity,  decent,,  modest,  easy,  kind, 
Softens  the  high,  and  rears  the  a.bject  mind  ; 
Knows  with  just  reins,  and  gentle  hand,  to  guide 
Betwixt  vile  shame  and  arbitrary  pride. 
Not  soon  provok'd,  she  easily  forgives  ; 
And  much  she  suflers,  as  she  much  belives. 
Soft  peace  she  brings  where  ever  she  arrives  ; 
She  builds  our  quiet,  as  she  forms  our  lives  : 
Lays  the  rough  path  of  peevish  nature  even  ; 
And  opens  in  each  heart  a  little  heaven. 

Each  otlier  gift,  which  God  on  man  bestows». 
Its  proper  bounds,  and  due  restriction  knows  -, 
To  one  fixt  purpose  dedicates  its  power  ; 
And  finishing'  its  act,  exists  no  more. 
Thus,  in  obedience  to  what  Heaven  decrees^ 
Knowledge  shall  fail,  and  Prophecy  shall  cease  ; 
But  lasting  Charity's  more  ample  sway, 
Nor  bound  by  time,  nor  subject  to  decay, 
In  happy  triumph  shall  for  ever  live  ; 
And  endless  good  diiTuse,  and  endless  praise  receive^- 

As  through  the  artist's  intervening  glass, 
Our  eye  observes  the  distant  planets  pass  ; 
A  little  we  discover  ;  but  allov/, 
That  more  remains  unseen,  than  Art  can  show  ; 
So  whilst  our  mind  its  knowledge  wou'd  improve,. 
(Its  feeble  eye  intent  on  things  above,) 
High  as  we  may,  we  lift  our  reason  up. 
By  Faith  directed,  and  coufirm'd  by  Hope; 
Yet  are  we  able  only  to  survey 
Dawnings  of  beams,  and  promises  of  day ; 
Heaven's  fuller  effluence  mocks  our  dazzled  sight  } 
Too  great  its  swiftness,  and  too- strong  its  light. 


380  Descriptive  Pieces. 

But  soon  the  mediate  clouds  shall  ht  dispell'd  ; 
The  SuD  shall  soon  he  face  to  face  beheld, 
In  all  his  robes,  with  all  his  glory  on, 
Seated  sublime  on  his  meridian  throne. 

Then  constant  Faith,  and  holy  Hope  shall  die, 
One  lost  in  certainty,  and  one  in  joy  : 
Whilst  thou,  more  happy  power,  fair  Charity, 
Triurapliant  sister,  greatest  of  the  three, 
Thy  office,  and  thy  nature  still  the  same, 
Lasting  thy  lamp,  and  unconsuni'd  thy  tiame, 

Shalt  still  survive 

Shall  stand  before  the  host  of  heaven  confest, 
For  evef  blessing,  and  for  ever  blest. 


SECTION  IV. 


The  Pleasure  and   Benefit   of  an   improved  and  well' 
directed  Imagination. 

Ort  J  blest  of  Heaven,  who  not  the  languid  songs 

Of  Luxury,  the  siren  !  not  the  bribes 

Of  sordid  Wealth,  nor  all  the  gaudy  spoils 

Of  pageant  Honour,  can  seduce  to  leave 

Those  ever  blooming  sweets,  which,  from  the  store 

Of  Nature,  fair  Imagination  culls, 

To  charm  the  enliven'd  soul !  What  though  not  all 

Of  mortal  offspring  can  attain  the  hight 

Of  env}  'd  life  :  though  only  few  possess 

Patrician  treasures,  or  Imperial  state  ; 

Yet  Nature's  care,  to  all  her  children  just. 

With  richer  treasures,  and  an  ampler  state, 

Endows  at  large  whatever  happy  man 

Will  deign  to  use  them.     His  the  city's  pomp, 

The  rural  honours  his.     Whate'er  adorns 

The  princely  dome,  the  column  and  the  arch, 

Tlie  breathing  marble  and  the  sculptur'd  gold. 

I'eyond  the  proud  possessor's  narrow  claim. 

Hie  tuneful  breast  enjoys.     For  him,  the  spring 


Descriptive  Pieces.  38 1 

Distils  her  dews,  and  from  the  silken  gem 

Its  lucid  leaves  unfold  :  for  him,  tiie  hand 

Of  Autumn  tinges  every  fertile  branch 

With  blooming  gold,  and  blushes  like  the  morn. 

Each  [lassing  hour  sheds  tribute  from  her  wings  ; 

And  still  new  beauties  meet  his  lonely  walk, 

And  loves  unfelt  attract  him.     Not  a  breeze 

riies  o'er  the  meadow  ;  not  a  cloud  imbibes 

The  setting  sun's  eflulgeiice  *,  not  a  strain 

From  all  the  tenants  of  the  warbling  shade 

Ascends  ;  but  v/hence  his  bosom  can  partake 

Fresh  pleasure,  unreprov'd.     Nor  thence  partakes 

Fresh  pleasure  only  ;  for  the  attentive  Mind, 

By  this  harmonious  action  on  her  powers, 

Becomes  herself  harmonious  :  ivont  so  oft 

In  outward  things  to  meditate  the  charm 

Of  sacred  order,  soon  she  seeks  at  home. 

To  find  a  kindred  order  ;  to  esert 

\\''ithin  herself  this  elegance  of  love, 

This  fair  inspir'd  delight :  her  tempered  powers 

Refine  at  length,  and  every  passion  wears 

A  chaster,  milder,  more  attractive  mien. 

But  if  to  ampler  prospects,  if  to  gaze 

On  nature's  form,  where,  negligent  of -all 

These  lesser  graces,  she  assumes  the  port 

Of  that  Eternal  Majesty  that  weigh'd 

The  world's  foundations,  if  to  these  the  Mind 

Exalts  her  daring  eye  ;  then  mightier  far 

Will  be  the  change,  and  nobler.     Would  the  forms 

Of  servile  custom  cramp  her  generous  powers  ? 

Would  sordid  policies,  the  barbarous  growth 

Of  Ignorance  and  Rapine,  bow  her  down 

To  tame  pursuits,  to  indolence  and  fear; 

Lo  !  she  appeals  to  Nature,  to  the  winds 

And  rolling  waves,  the  sun's  unvvearied  course, 

The  elements  and  seasons :  all  declare 

For  what  the  eternal  IMaker  has  ordain'd 

The  powers  of  man  :  we  feel  within  ourselves. 

His  energy  divine  :  he  tells  the  heart, 

He  meant,  he  made  us  to  behold  and  iove 


383  Pathetic  Pieces. 

What  he  behoMs  and  loves,  the  g-eneralorb 
Of  life  and  being  ;  to  be  great  like  Him, 
Beneficent  and  active.     Tlius  the  men 
Whom  nature's  works  instruct,  with  God  himself 
Hold  converse  ;  grow  familiar  day  by  day, 
W^itJi  his  conceptions  ;  act  upon  Jiis  plan  ; 
And  form  to  his,  the  reJish  of  their  souls. 


CHAP.    IV. 

Pathetic  Pieces, 

^em^:nm^ 

SECTION  I. 

Rejlections  on  the  Miseries  of  Life. 

Ait,  little  think  the  gay,  licentious  proud. 
Whom  j)Ieasurc,  power,  and  affluence  surround  ; 
I'hcy  who  their  thoughtless  hours  in  giddy  mirth, 
And  wanton,  often  cruel  riot  waste  ; 
Ah,  little  think  they,  while  they  dance  along, 
How  many  feel,  this  very  moment,  death, 
And  a!l  the  sad  variety  of  i>ain. 
IIov.'  many  sink  in  the  devouring  flood, 
Or  more  devouring  flame.     How  many  bleed, 
By  shameful  variance  betwixt  man  and  man. 
How  many  pine  in  want  and  dungeon  glooms, 
Shut  from  the  common  air,  and  common  use 
Of  their  own  limbs.     How  many  drink  the  cup 
Of  baleful  Grief,  or  eat  the  bitter  bread 
Of  Jflisery.     Sore  pierc'd  by  wintry  winds, 
How  many  shrink  into  the  sordid  hut 
Of  cheerless  poverty.     How  many  shake 
With  all  the  fiercer  tortures  of  the  mini, 


Pathetic  Fiec&s.  383 

Unbounded  passion,  madness,  guilt,  remorse. 
How  many,  rack'd  with  honest  passions,  droop 
In  deep  retir'd  distress.     How  many  stand 
Around  tlie  death-bed  of  their  dearest  friends, 
And  point  the  parting  anguish.     Thought  fond  man 
Of  these,  and  all  the  tliousand  nameless  ills, 
That  one  incessant  struggle  render  life 
One  scene  of  toil,  of  suffering,  and  of  fate, 
Vice  in  his  high  career  would  stand  appall'd, 
And  heedless,  rambling  Impulse  learn  to  think; 
The  conscious  heart  of  Charity  would  warm, 
And  her  wide  wish  Benevolence  dilate  ; 
The  social  tear  would  rise,  the  social  sigh  ; 
And  into  clear  perfection,  gradual  bliss, 
Kefining  stilJ,  the  social  Passions  work. 


SECTION  II. 

Leonidas's  Farewell. 


Here  pausVl  the  patriot.     With  religious  awe 
Grief  heard  the  voice  of  virtue.     No  complaint 
The  solemn  silence  broke.     Tears  teas'd  to  flow  : 
Ceas'd  for  a  moment;  soon  again  to  stream. 
For  now,  in  arras  before  the  palace  rang'd, 
His  brave  companions  of  the  war  demand 
Their  leader's  presence  ;  then  her  griefs  renew'd, 
Too  great  for  utl'rance,  intercept  her  sighs, 
And  freeze  each  accent  on  her  fault'ring  tongue. 
In  speechless  anguish  on  the  hero's  breast 
She  sinks.     On  ev'ry  side  his  children  press, 
Hang  on  liis  knees,  and  kiss  hishonour'd  hand. 
His  soul  no  longer  struggles  to  confine 
Its  strong  compunction.     Down  the  hero's  cheek, 
Down  flows  the  manly  sorrow.     Creat  in  woe, 
Ami*!  his  children,  who  incioss  him  round, 


384  Pathetic   Pieces, 

He  stands  indulging  tenderness  and  love 
In  graceful  tears,  when  thus,  with  lifted  eyes, 
Address'd  to  heaven  :  Thou  ever-living  Pow'r, 
Look  down  propitious,  sire  of  gods  and  men  ! 
And  to  tJiis  faithful  woman,  whose  desert 
May  claim  thy  favour,  grant  the  hours  of  peace. 
And  thou,  ray  great  forefather,  son  of  Jove, 
O  Hercules,  neglect  not  these  thy  race  ! 
But  since  that  spirit  I  from  thee  derive. 
Now  bears  me  from  tliem  to  resistless  Tate, 
Do  thou  support  their  virtue  !  Be  they  taught, 
Like  thee,  with  glorious  labour  life  to  grace, 
And  from  their  father  let  them  Icaru  to  die ! 


SECTION  III. 

The  Funeral, 


-No  place  inspires 


Emotions  more  accordant  with  the  day. 
Than  does  the  field  of  graves,  the  land  of  rest: — 
Oft  at  the  close  of  ev'ning-pray'r,  the  toll, 
The  fun'ral-toll,  announces  solemnly 
The  service  of  the  tomb  ;  the  homeward  crouds- 
Divide  on  either  hand  :  the  pomp  draws  near  ; 
The  choir  to  meet  the  dead  go  forth,  and  sing, 
"  /  ain  the  resurrection  and  the  life.'''* 
Ah  me  !  these  youthful  hearers  rob'd  in  white, 
They  tell  a  mournful  tale  ;  some  blooming  friend 
Is  gone,  dead  in  her  {)rime  of  years  : — 'twas  she, 
The  poor  man's  friend,  who,  when  she  could  not  give, 
WItli  angel  tongue  pleaded  to  those  who  could, 
With  angel-tongue  and  mild  beseeching  eye. 
That  ne'er  besought  in  vain,  save  v.'hen  shepray'd 
For  longer  life,  with  heart  resigu'd  to  die, — 
Rf^joic'd  to  die  ;  for  happy  visions  biese'd  • 


Pathetic  Pieces.  385 

Iler  voyas^e's  last  days,  and,  hov'ring  round, 
Alighted  on  her  soul,  giving  presage 

That  heav'n  was  uigh  : O  what  a  burst 

Of  rapture  from  her  h'ps  !   wliat  tears  of  joy 

ilcr  heav'nward  eyes  suffus'd  !  Those  eyes  are  clos'd: 

Yet  all  her  loveliness  is  not  yet  flown  : 

She  smiPd  in  death,  and  still  her  cold  pale  face 

Retains  that  smile  ;  as  when  a  wavcless  lake, 

In  wliicli  the  wint'ry  stars  all  brigiit  appear, 

Is  sheeted  by  a  nightly  frost  with  ice, 

Still  it  reflects  the  f.uc  of  heav'n  unchang'd, 

Uiiruilled  by  the  breeze  or  sweeping  blast. 

Again  tltat  kntlM   The  slow  procession  stops  : 

The  pall  withdrawn,  Death's  altar,  thick-emboss'd 

\V  ith  melancholy  ornaments, — (the  name, 

The  record  of  htr  blossoming  age,) — appears 

fuvil'd,  aiwi  on  it  dust  to  dust  is  thrown, 

The  final  rite.     Oh  !  hark  that  sullen  sound  1 

Upon  the  lower'd  bier  the  shovell'd  clay 

J/alJs  fast,  and  fills  the  void — 


SECTION  IV. 

The  Grave, 

^dvr  in  tlie  lone  church-yard  at  night  I've  seen, 
By  glimpse  of  moonlight  cbeq'ri  ng  through  the  trees, 
The  school  boy  with  his  satchel  in  his  hand, 
Whistling  aloud  to  I:)ear  his  courage  up, 
And  lightly  tripping  o'er  the  long  flat  stones 
(With  nettles  skirted,  and  ivith  moss  o'ergrown) 
That  tell  in  homely  phrase  who  lie  below  ; 
Sudden  he  starts  .'  and  hears,  or  thinks  lie  Jwnrs, 
The  sound  of  something  purring  at  his  heels  ; 
Full  fast  he  flies,  and  dare  not.  look  behind  him, 
'Till  out  of  brealh  he  overtakes  his  fellows  ; 
Who  gather  round,  and  wonder  at  the  tale 

II  h 


386  Pathciic  Pieces. 

Of  horrid  apparition,  tall  and  ghastly, 

Til  at  walks  at  dead  of  night,  or  takes  his  stand 

O'er  some  new  open'd  grave  :  and,  strange  to  tell! 

Evanishes  at  crowing  of  the  cock. 

The  new-made  widow  too,  I've  sometimes  spied, 

Sad  sight  !  slow  moving  o'er  the  prostrate  dead  ; 

Listless,  she  crawls  along  in  doleful  black, 

While,  bursts  of  sorrow  gush  from  either  eye, 

Fast- falling  dossil  her  now  untasted  cheek. 

Prone  on  the  lovely  grave  of  the  dear  man 

She  drops  :  wliilst  busy,  meddling  memory, 

In  barbarous  succession,  musters  up 

The  past  endearment  of  their  softer  hours, 

Tenacious  of  its  theme.     Still,  still,  she  thinks 

She  sees  him,  and  indulging  the  fond  thought, 

Clings  yet  more  closely  to  the  senseless  turf. 

Nor  heeds  the  passenger  who  looks  that  way. 

Invidious  grave  !  how  dost  thou  rend  in  sunder 

Whom  Love  has  knit  and  Sympathy  made  one  ! 

A  tie  more  stubborn  far,  than  Nature's  band. 

Friendship  !  mysterious  cement  of  the  soul ! 

Sweet'ner  of  life  and  solder  of  society  \ 

I  owe  thee  much.     Thou  hast  deserved  from  me, 

Far,  far  beyond  what  I  can  ever  pay. 

Oft  liave  I  prov'd  the  labors  of  thy  love, 

And  the  warm  eilbrts  of  the  gentle  heart 

Anxious  to  please.     O  !  when  my  friend  and  I 

In  some  thick  wocu]  have  wander'd  heedless  on, 

Hid  from  the  vulgar  eye,  and  sat  us  down 

Upon  the  sloping  co\vslij>cover'd  basik. 

Where  tlie  pure  linjpid  stream  has  slid  along 

In  grateftd  errDrs,  through  the  undtruood 

Sweet  nutrm'ring:  methoughtiheshrill-tonsrued  thrush 

Mended  his  song  of  love;  the  sooty  blackbird 

IMellow'd  his  pipe,  ar.d  soften'd  ev'ry  note  ; 

The  eglanti-^e  smell'd  sweeter,  and  ihe  rose 

Assum'd  a  dye  more  chep  ;  whilst  ev'ry  How'r 

Vied  >\ith  Vf?  Allow  plant  in  luxury 

Of  drtss.     Oh !  then  the  longest  summer's  day 


Promiscuous  Pieces.  38? 

SccmM  too,  too  ranch  in  haste ;  still  the  full  heart 
Had  not  imparted  lialf :  'twas  happiness 
Too  exquisite  to  last.     Of  joys  departed, 
Not  to  returu,  how  [}aiuful  the  reiiiembrance  I 


C  II A  P.  V. 

Promiscuous  Pieces, 

SECTION  r. 

Collins*  Ode  on  the  Passions, 

Tew  productions  of  genius  are  to  be  found  in  the 
Englisli  Language,  the  recital  of  which  is  better  cal- 
culated fur  that  exercise  and  preparation  of  the  Or- 
gans indispensable  for  the  higher  graces  of  Oratorical 
expressions,  than  the  following  Ode  of  Coxliks. 

When  Music,  heavenly  maid,  was  young, 
While  yet  in  early  Greece  she  sung, 
The  passions  oft,  to  hear  her  shelly 
Throng'd  around  her  magic  cell. 
Exulting,  tremliling,  raging  fainting, 
Posscss'd  beyond  the  Muse's  painting. 
By  turns,  they  felt  the  glowing  mind 
Disturbed,  delighted,  rais'd,  refin'd  : 
Till  once, 'tis  said,  when  all  were  fir'd, 
Fill'd  with  fury,  rapt,  inspir'd. 
From  the  supporting  mirtles  round 
They  snatch'd  her  instruments  of  sound  ; 
And  as  tiiey  oft  had  heard  apart 
Sweet  lessons  of  her  forceful  art, 
Each  (for  madness  rul'd  the  hour) 
Would  prove  his  own  expressive  power. 


oSS  Promiscuous  Pieee^s, 

First,  Fear,  Lis  hand,  its  skill  to  try. 

Amid  the  cliords  bewilder'd  laid  .; 
And  hack  recoil'd  he  knew  not  why, 

Even  at  the  sound  himself  had  made. 
Kext,  Anger  rush'd,  his  eyes  on  fire  i 

In  lightnings  own'd  his  iiccret  stings. 
In  one  rude  clash  he  struck  the  lyre — 

And  swept,  with  hurry'd  hands,  the  strings. 

With  woful  measures,  wan  Despair — 
Low  sullen  sounds  his  grief  iDeguil'd  ; 

A  solemn,  strange,  and  mingled  air ; 
'Twas  sad,  by  fits — by  starts,  'twas  wild. 

But  thou  O  Hope  !  witli  eyes  sa  fair, 
What  was  thy  delighted  measure  ! 
Still  it  whjsper'd  promis'd  pleasure, 
And  bade  the  lovely  scenes  at  distance  haik 
Still  would  her  touch  the  strain  prolong  ; 

And  from  the  rocks,  the  woods,  the  vale, 
She  cali'd  on  echo  still  through  all  her  song  j^ 
And,  where  her  sweetest  theme  she  chose, 
A  soft  responsive  voice  was  heard  at  every  elose  ; 
And  Hope,  enchanted,  sniil'd,  and  wav'd  her  golden 
hair : 

And  longer  had  she  sung — but,  with  a  frown 

Kevenge  impatient  rose. 
He  threw  his  blood  stain'd  sword  in  thunder  down  : 
And,  with  a  withering  look, 
The  war  denouncing  trumpet  took. 
And  blew  a  blast,  so  loud  and  dread, 
Were  ne'er  prophetic  sounds  so  full  of  wo  ; 

And,  ever  and  anon,  he  beat 
The  doubling  drum  with  furious  heat. 
And  though,  sometimes,  each  dreary  pause  between,- 

Dejected  Pity  at  his  side, 
xitT  soul  subduing  voice  applied. 

Yet  still  he  kept  his  wild  unaltered  mcin  ; 
While  each  sfraiu'd  ball  of  sisht— seem'd  bursting 
from  his  head. 


Promisaious  Pieces.  389 

Thy  mirnbers,  Jealousy,  to  nought  were  fix'd  ; 

Sad  proof  of  thy  distressful  stale. 
Of  difltriiig  themes  the  veering  song  was  mix'd  ; 

And,  now,  it  courted  Love ;  now,  raving  call'd  on 
Hate* 

With  eves  up-rais'd,  as  one  inspir'd'i 

Pale  Melanclioly  sat  retir'd  ; 

And  Troni  her  wild  sequestered  seat, 

In  notes  by  distance  made  more  sweet, 

Pour'd  through  the  mellow  horn  her  pensive  soul ; 

And,  dashing  soft,  from  rocks  around, 

Bubbling  runnels  join'd  the  sound. 
Through  glades  and  glooms  the  mingled  measure  stole^ 

Or  o'er  some  haunted  streams,  with  fond  delay, 
(Round  an  holy  calm  diJVusing, 
Love  of  peace  and  lonely  musing), 

In  hollow  murmurs  died  away. 
But,  Oj  how  alter'd  was  its  sprightlicrtone  ! 
When  Oieerfulness,  a  nymph  of  healthiest  hue, 

Her  bow  across  her  shoulder  flung, 

Her  buskins  gemm'd  with  morning  dew. 
Blew  an  inspiring  air,  tliat  dale  and  thicket  rung, 

The  hunter's  call,  to  Faun  and  Dryad  known. 

The  oak-crown'd    Sisters,   and    their  chaste-ey'd 
QueeHj 

Satyrs,  and  sylvan  Boys,  were  seen 

Peeping  from  forth  their  alleys  green  : 

Brown  Exercise  rejoic'd  to  hear  ; 

And  Sport  leapt  up,  and  seiz'd  his  beeclien  spear. 

List  came  Joy's  ecstatic  trial. 
He,  with  viny  crown  advancing. 

First  to  the  lively  pipe  his  hand  address'd  ; 
But,  soon  he  saw  the  brisk  awakening  viol, 

Wliose  sweet  entrancing  voice  he  lov'd  the  best. 
They  would  have  thought  who  heard  the  strain, 
They  saw,  in  Tempe's  vale,  her  native  maid^, 
Amkl  the  festal  sounding  shades. 
Hh2 


SSK)  Promise  nous  Ficcc.s, 

To  somcjnucarifcl  ininslr^l  dancins:^  ; 

While,  as  bis  Hyinir  fingers  kiss'd  the  strings, 
LovT  franiM  with  Mirih  a  gay  fauiastic  round, 
(Loose  were  her  tresse-  .seen,  lier  zone  unbound ) 
And  he,  amid  hi.>  frt^lic  j)!ay, 
As  if  lie  would  liie  rhorndns:  ^li''  ''^pay, 
Slicok  ti^.ousand  odours  from  his  dewv  wincfs. 


SECTION    IL 
A  Tea  Party. 

When  the  party  commences,  all  starth'd  and  all 
Glum, 
'ihey  talk  of  the  weather,  thsir  corns,  or  sit  mum  : 
Th.cy  will  tell  you  of  ribbons,  of  camljric,  of  lace, 
How  cheap  they  were  sold' — and  will  tell  you  the  place. 
They  discourse  of  their  cohls,  and  they  hem  and  they 

cou2:h, 
And  complain  of  tlieir  servants  to  pass  the  time  off^ 

But  Tj5\,  that  enlivencr  of  wit  and  of  soul. 
More  loquacious  Ijy  far  than  the  draughts  of  the  bowl, 
Soon  loosejis  the  tongue  and  enlivens  the  mind, 
And  enlightens  their  eyes  to  the /«2/i/.s  of  mankind. 
It  1  rings  on  the  tapis  their  jieighbor's  defects, 
Tlie  faults  of  their  friends,  or  their  wilful  neglects; 
xlemindsthcm  of  many  a  good-natur'd  tale 
Abont  those  who  are  stylish  and  those  mIio  are  frail* 
Till  the  sweet  tcmj)er'd  dames  are  converted  by  tea, 
Into  character  ma nglers — Gimtiikophngi. 
in  harnHess  chit  chat  an  acquaintance  they  roast, 
And  serve  up  a  friend,  as  they  serve  up  a  toast, 
Some  gen  tie /a!/a'/;<75,  or  some  fenvile  mistake, 
Is  like  sweetmeats  delicous,  or  rclish'd  as  cake  : 
A  bit  of  broad  scandal  is  like  a  dry  crust, 
Tt  would  stick  in  t^e  throat,  so  they  butter  it  first 


Promise tious  Picce^^.  i?[>t 

VVitli  a  Utile  affected  crootl  iiat\ire,  and  cry 
No'jod)/  regrets  t/ie  tfiinq-  df"  per  ikan  [. 

Ah  (adies,  and  was  it  by  Hi-aveu  desi^n'c} 
Tiiat.  ye  should  he  iiiercirul  ;<;viiig,  aiul  kin(J  / 
Did  it  form  you  like  ant^ek  .Jiid  sfiui  you. heiows, 
To  prophesy  peace — to  bid  ciiarity  flow  ! 
And  have  you  thus  iefr  your  priiiu  val  estate, 
And  wander  so  widely — so  strange)}'  of  late? 
Alas  ?  the  sad  cause  1  ttx)  plainly  can  see, 
These  evils  have  all  come  u])on  you  thro'  Tea. 
Cursed  weed,  that  (an  make  our  fair  spirits  resi^i- 
Tlie  character  mild  of  their  mission  divine, 
That  can  blot  fro  n  their  bosoms  that  tenderness  true^ 
Which  from  female  to  female  forever  is  due. 
Oh  liow  nice  is  (he  texture,  how  fragile  the  frame 
Of  that  delicate  blossom,  a  female's  fair  fame ! 
'lis  the  sensitive  plant,  it  recoils  from  the  breath, 
Andshrinks  from  the  touch  as  if  pregnant  with  death- 
How  often,  how  often,  has  iiniocence  sigh'd, 
Has  beauty  been  reTt  of  its  honor,  its  pride, 
Has  virtue,  thoiigh  pure  as  an  angel  of  light, 
Been  painted  as  dark  as  a  demon  of  night  •, 
All  od'ered  up  victims — in  auto  de  /e, 
At  the  gloomy,  cabcils,  the  dark  orgies  of  tea. 
If  I,  in  the  remnant  that's  left  me  of  life. 
Am  to  suffer  the  torments  of  slanderous  strife, 
Let  me  fall,  I    implore,  in  the  slang-wanger's  claw,, 
Where  the  evil  is  open,  and  sufijert  to  law. 
Not  nibbled  and  mumbled;  and  put  to  the  rack, 
jiy  tlie  sly  undermining  of  tea  party  clack  : 
Condemn  me,  ye  gods,  to  a  newspaper  roasting, 
But  spare  me  !  oh  spare  me,  a  tea-table  toasting  J 


SECTION  III. 

The  Thr€€  Black  Crows,  or  the  Progress  of  Untruth. 

TWO  honest  tradesmen  meeting  in  the  Strand, 
One  took  tiie  otiier,  br iskly,  by  the  hand  3 


d^2  Promiscuous  Fieccs. 

Hark  ye,  said  lie, 'tis  an  odd  story  this, 

About  t!ie  crows  ! — I  don't  know  what  it  is, 

Reply'd  his  friend — No  !  I'ju  surprised  at  that  ; 

Wiiere  I  come  from,  it  is  tlie  common  chat : 

But  you  sliall  hear;  an  odd  affiiir  indeed  ! 

And  that  it  happen'd,  they  are  ail  as^reed : 

N'>t  to  detain  you  from  a  thing  so  strange, 

A  gentleman  that  lives  not  far  from  'Change, 

This  week,  in  short,  as  all  the  allei/  knows. 

Taking  a  puke,  has  thrown  up  t/iree  black  crovcs. 

Impossible! — Nay  but  it's  really  true; 

I  have  it  from  good  hands,  and  so  may  you — 

From  whose,  1  pray  ?  so  liaving  nam'd  the  maD, 

Strait  to  inquire  his  curious  corarade  ran. 

Sir,  did  you  tell — relating  the  aifair — 

Yes,  Sir,  I  did  ;  and  if  it's  worth  your  care, 

Ask  Mr.  Such-a  one,  he  told  it  me  ; 

But  by  the  bye,  'twas  ivoo  black  crows,  r^otthree-^ 

Resolv'd  to  trace  so  wondVous  an  event, 

Whip  to  the  third,  the  virtuoso  went. 

Sir, — and  so  forth — Why,  yes  ;  the  thing  is  fact, 

Though  in  regard  to  number  not  exact ; 

It  was  not  ^fua  black  crows,  'twas  onlv  one. 

The  truth  of  that  you  may  depend  upon. 

The  gentleman  himself  told  me  the  case — 

Where  may  1  find  him — Why,  in  such  a  place. 

Away  goes  he,  and  having  found  him  out, 

Sir,  be  so  good  as  to  r«soIve  a  doubt — 

Then  to  his  last  informant  he  referred, 

And  begg'd  to  know,  if  ^n/e  what  he  had  heard  ; 

Did  you,  Sir,  throw  up  a  black  crow? — Not  W—r 

Bless  me  !  how  people  propagate  a  lie! 

Black  crows  have  been  thrown  up,  Mrce,  txDO,and  oiiej 

And  here  I  find  all  comes  at  last  to  iio/ie  ! 

Did  you  say  nothing  of  a  crow  at  all  / 

Crow — Crow — perhaps  I  might,  now  I  recall 

The  matter  over — And  pray.  Sir,  what  was't  ? — 

Why,  I  was  horrid  sick,  and,  at  the  last, 

I  did  throw  up,  and  told  my  neighbor  so, 

Something  that  was  as  blacky  Sir,  as  a  crow^ 


Frmnhcuaus  Pieces,  393 

SECTION  IV. 

The  Mariner's  Dream, 

JN  slumbers  of  miJuis^ht,  the  sailor-hoy  lay  ; 

His  hammock  swung  loose  at  the  sport  of  the  wind  \ 
But  \witch-worn  an<l  weary,  his  cares  Hew  away, 

AtuI  visions  of  happiness  danc'd  o'er  his  mind. 
He  dreamt  of  his  home,  of  his  dear  native  how'rs, 

And  j)leasure  that  wailed  on  life's  merry  morn, 
Wiiile  Mera'ry  stood  sideways,  half  covered  with  flow- 
ers, 

And  restor'd  ev'ry  rose,  but  secreted  its  thorn. 
TJien  Fancy  her  magical  pinions  spread  wide. 

And  bade  the  young  dreamer  in  extacy  rise — 
Now  far,  far  behind  him  the  green  waters  glide. 

And  the  cot  of  his  fore  fathers  blesses  his  eycs» 
The  jessamine  chambers  in  flow'r  o'er  the  thatch. 

And  the  swallow  sings  sweet  from  her  nest  in  the 
wal  1 ; 
All  trembling  with  transport,  he  raises  the  latch. 

And  the  voices  of  lov'd  ones  reply  to  his  call. 
A  father  bends  o'er  him  \v\\.\\  looks  of  delight, 

His  cheek  is  impearl'd  with  a  mother's  warm  tear, 
And  the  lips  of  the  boy  in  a  love  kiss  unite 

With  the  iips  of  the  maid  whom  his  bosom  holds 
dear, 
Th«  heart  of  the  sleeper  beats  high  in  his  breast, 

Joy  quickens  his  pulsi — all  hardshii)s  seem  o'er, 
And  a  murmur  of  happiness  steal'  through  his  rest — 

*'  Oh  God  !  l/ion  hast  blessed  me — -/  ask  for  no  more.''^ 
Ah  !  whence  is  that  llame,   which  now  bursts  on  his 
eye? 

Ah  !  what  is  that  sound  which  now  'larums  his  ear? 
Tisthe  lightnings  red  glare,  painting  he!!  on  tliesky  ! 
'Tis  the  crashing  of  thunders,  the  groan  of  the  sphere  t 
lie  springs   from  his  himnaock — he  Hies  to  the  dcckv 

Amazement  confronts  him  with  images  dirc-~- 


39'i  Promiscnoiis   Pieces. 

Wild  winds  and  waves  drive  the  vessel  a  wreck — 

The  masts  (ly  in  splinters — (he  siirouds  are  ou  fire  ! 
Like  mouiilains  the  billows  tremendoir  ly  swell — 

In  vain  the  lost  wretch  calls  on  Mary  to  save; 
Udseen  hands  of  spirits  aie  ringing  Itis  knell, 

And  the  Death- Angel  flaps  his  broad  wing  o'er  the 
wave  ! 
Gh  !  sailor-boy,  woe  to  thy  dream  of  delight ! 

In  darkness  dissolves  the  gay  frost  work  of  bliss — 
WJiere  now  is  the  picture  that  fancy  touch'd   bright. 

Thy  parents'  fond  pressure,  and  loves  honey'd  kiss  ? 
Oh  !  saiIor-l>oy  !  sailor-boy  !  never  again 

Shall  home,  love  or  kindred,  thy  wishes  repay  ; 
UubJess'd  and  unhouonr'd,  down  deep  in  the  main, 

Full  many  a  score  fathom,  thy  frame  shall  decay. 
No  tomb  shall  e'er  plead  to  remembrance  for  thee, 

Or  redeem  form  or  frame  from  the  merciless  surge ; 
But  the  white  foam  of  waves  shall  thy  winding  sheet 
be, 

'And  winds,  in  the  midnight  of  winter,  thy  dirge. 
On  beds  of  green  sea  flow'r  thy  limbs  shall  be  laid-; 

Around  thy  white  bones  the  red  coral  shall  grow  ; 
©f  thy  fair  yellow  locks  threads  of  amber  be  made, 

And  ev'ry  part  suit  to  thy  mansion  below. 
Days,  months,  years  and  ages,  shall  circle  away, 

And  still  tlie  vast  waters  above  thee  shall  roll — 
Earth  looses  thy  pattern  forever  and  aye— - 

Oh  !  sailor- boy  !  sailor-boy  !  peace  to  Ihy  souJ*. 


THE  ORATOR. 


PART    IV. 


DIALOGUES,    Src, 


The  player's  profession,- 


Lies  not  in  trick,  or  attiuide,  or  start, 
Nature's  true  knowledge  is  the  only  art, 
The  strons;  felt  passion  bolts  into  his  face, 
The  mind  unlouch'd,  what  is  it  but  grimace! 
To  this  one  standard,  make  your  just  appeal, 
Here  lies  the  golden  secret,  learn  lo  Feel ; 
Or  fool,  or  monarch,  hajipy  or  distress'd, 
No  actor  pleases  that  is  not  possessM. 

A  single  look  mere  marks  the  internal  woe, 
Than  all  the  windings  of  the  lengthening  oh  ! 
Up  to  the  face  the  quick  sensation  flies, 
And  darts  its  meaning  from  the  speaking  cyts  ; 
Love,  transport,  madness,  angei,  scorn,  cesiiair, 
And  all  the  passions,  all  the  soul  is  there. 


CHAP.  I. 

SECTION  I. 

A   tr(y[f05al  of  Marriage. 

Hardcastle.  Blessings  on  my  pretty  innocence  i 
Digest  out  as  usual,  my  Kate.  Goodness!  what  a 
quaiitiiy  of  supcifii-cus  silk  hast  thru  got  arout 
llif'c  girl  !  I  coi;l<;  never  teach  the  fools  of  this  age, 
that  tlic  indig:n!  world  couiu  bt;  cloilied  out  of  the 
trimnungs  of  the  vaiu. 


S9G  Dialogues, 

Miss  TIardcdstic,  You  know  our  agreement,  Sir. 
You  allow  me  the  morning  to  receive  and  pay  visits, 
and  to  dress  in  my  ow4)  manner,  and  in  the  evening, 
I  put  on  my  liouse-wife  dress  to  please  you. 

Hard.  Well,  rejucml)€r  I  insist  on  the  terms  of  our 
sgrceruent ;  and  by  the  bye,  1  l)elieve  1  shall  have 
occasion  to  try  your  obedience  this  very  evening. 

Miss  Hard.  1  protest,  Sir,  I  don't  compreliend 
your  meaning. 

Hard,  Then,  to  be  plain  with  you,  Kate,  I  expect 
the  young  gentleman  1  have  cliosen  to  be  vour  Jius- 
band  from  town  t'lis  very  day.  I  have  his  father's 
letter,  in  wJiich  he  informs  me  his  son  is  set  out,  and 
that  he  intends  to  follow  himself  shortly  after. 

Miss  Hard.  Indeed!  1  wish  I  had  known  some- 
thing of  this  before.  Dear  me,  how  shall  I  behave? 
It's  a  thousand  to  one  I  slian't  like  him  ;  our  meet- 
ing will  be  so  formal,  and  so  like  a  thing  of  business, 
that  I  shall  find  no  room  for  friendship  or  esteem. 

Hard.  Depend  upon  it,  chihl,  I'll  never  controul 
your  choice  ;  but  Mr.  Marlow,  wliom  I  have  pitched 
upon,  is  the  son  of  my  old  friend,  Sir  Charles  Mar- 
low,  of  whom  you  have  heard  lue  talk  so  often.  The 
young  gentleman  has  been  bred  a  scholar,  and  is  de- 
signe(l  for  an  employment  in  the  service  ®f  his  coun- 
try. I  am  told  he's  a  man  of  an  excellent  understand- 
ing. 

Miss  Hard.  Is  he  ? 

Hard,  Very  generous. 

Miss  Hard.  1  believe  I  shall  like  him. 

Ha  rd,  Yo  u  n  g  a  n  d  b  r a ve . 

Miss  Hard.  I'm  sure  I  shall  like  him. 

Hard.  And  very  handsome. 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  say  no  more  [/;issing 
his  hand]  he's  mine,  I'll  have  him. 

Hard.  And  to  crown  all.  Kale,  he's  one  of  the 
niobt  bashful  and  reserved  young  fellows  in  all  the 
world. 

Miss  Hard.  Eli  !  you  have  frozen  me  to  death 
again.     That  word  reserved,  lias  undone  all  the  rest 


Dialogues,  357 

of  Ins  accomplishments.     A  reserved  lover,  it  is  said, 
ihvays  makes  a  suspicious  husband. 

Hard.  Ou  the  contrary,  luodest)'  seldom  resides 
ill  a  breast  that  is  not  enriched  w  ith  nobler  virtues. 
It  was  the  very  feature  in  his  character  that  first 
struck  nie. 

Miss  Hard.  He  must  have  more  striking  features 
to  catch  nie,  I  promise  you.  However,  if  lie  be  so 
young,  so  handsome,  and  so  every  thin;^,  as  you 
mention,  1  believe  lie'II  do  still.  I  think  I'll  have 
him. 

Jlard.  Ay,  Kale,  but  there  is  still  an  obstacle.  It's 
more  than  an  even  wager  he  may  not  liave  you. 

Miss  Hard.  My  dear  papa,  why  will  you  raoftify 
one  so  ? — Well,  if  he  refuses,  instead  of  breaking 
my  heart  at  his  indillerence,  I'll  only  break  my  glass 
for  its  ilattery  ;  and  set  ray  cap  to  some  newer  fash- 
ion, and  look  out  for  some  less  diificult  admirer. 

Hard.  Bravely  resolved  !  In  the  mean  time,  I'll  go 
prepare  the  servants  for  his  reception  ;  as  we  seldom 
see  company,  they  want  as  much  training  as  a  compa- 
ny of  recruits,  the  first  day's  muster.  \_Exit  Hardcastle, 

Miss  Hard.  This  nev.s  of  papa's  puts  me  all  in  a 
flutter.  Young,  handsome  ;  these  he  put  last  ;  but  I 
IJUt  them  foremost.  Sensible,  good-natured  ;  I  like 
all  that.  Rut  then  reserved  and  sheepish,  that's  much 
against  him.  Yet  can't  he  he  cured  of  his  timidity, 
by  being  taught  to  he  proud  of  his  wife  ?  Yes,  and 
can't  I — But  I  vow  I'm  disposing  of  the  husband  be- 
fore I  have  secured  the  lover. 


SECTION  II. 
Careifs  Lecture  on  Ml:nicri/, 

PATEKT   \^n  nOWLAS. 

Patent,    Walk  in.  Sir  ;    your  servant.  Sir,   your 
servant — have  you  any  particular  business  with  mc? 
li 


398  Dialogues. 

Doidas.  Yes,  Sir,  my  friends  have  lately  discov- 
ered that  I  have  a  genius  for  the  stage. 

Fai.  Oh,  you  wouhl  be  a  player,  would  you,  Sir  ? 
pray,  Sir,  did  you  ever  play  ? 

Dow.  No,  Sir,  but  I  flatter  myself — 

Pat.  I  hope  not,  not  Sir  ;  flattering  one's- self  is 
♦he  very  worst  of  hypocrisy. 

Dow.  You'll  excuse  me.  Sir. 

Fat.  Ay,  Sir,  if  you'll  excuse  me  for  not  flattering 
you. — I  always  speak  my  mind. 

Dow.   \  dare  say  you  will  like  my  manner.  Sir. 

Fat.  No  manner  of  doubt,  Sir — I  dare  say  I  shall 
— pray,  Sir,  with  which  of  the  ladies  are  you  in  love  ? 

Don.  In  love.  Sir  ! — ladies  !    [looking  round.'] 

Fat.  Ay,  Sir,  ladies — Miss  Comedy,  or  Dame 
Tragedy  ! 

Dory,  I'm  vastly  fond  of  Tragedy,  Sir. 

Fat.  Very  well,  Sir  ;  and  where  is  your  fort  ? 

Doio.  Sir? 

Fat.  I  say.  Sir,  what  is  your  department  ? 

Doii\  Department? — Do  you  mean  my  lodging,  Sir  ? 

Fc'.t.  Your  lodgings.  Sir  ? — no,  not  I:  ha,  ha,  ha, 
I  should  be  glad  to  know  what  department  you  wotild 
wish  to  possess  in  the  tragic  walk — the  sighing  lover, 
the  furious  hero,  or  the  sly  assassin. 

Dovj.  Sir,  I  should  like  to  play  King  Richard  the 
Third. 

Pet.  An  excellent  character  indeed — a  very  good 
character  ;  and  I  dare  say  yoa  will  play  it  vastly  well, 
Sir. 

Dow.  I  hope  you'll  have  no  reason  to  complain.  Sir. 

Fat.  I  hope  not.  Well,  Sir,  have  you  got  any  fa- 
vourite passage  ready  ? 

Dow    I  have  it  all  by  heart,  Sir. 

Pat.  You  have.  Sir,  have  you  ? — I  shall  be  glad  to 
liear  you. 

Dow.  Hem — hem — hem — [clearing  his  throat.'] 
What,  will  the  aspirng  blood  of  Lancaster 
Sink  in  the  ground — (thought  it  would  have  mounted. 
See  how  my  sword  weeps  for  the  poor  king's  death  ; 


Dialogues.  39^ 

©h  !  may  sucli  purple  tears,  be  always  shed 
On  those  who  wish  the  downfall  of  our  house  ; 
If  there  be  any  spark  of  life  yet  remaining 
Down,  down   to   hell   and  say  I   sent  thee  thither, 
I  that  have  neilher/JiV?/,  love^wov  fear. 

rat.  Hold,  Sir,  hold — in  pity  hold,  /a,  za,  za. 
Sir, — Sir — why,  Sir,  'tis  not  like  humanity.  You 
wont  find  me  so  great  a  barbarian  as  Richard  ; — you 
say  he  had  neither/)^?,?/,  love,  nor  fear, — now,  Sir,  you 
will  find  that  I  am  possessed  of  all  these  feelings  for 
you  at  present, — I  pity  your  conceit,  I  love  to  speak 
my  mind  ;  and — I  fear  you'll  never  make  a  player. 

Dow,  Do  you  think  so.  Sir  ? 

tat.  Do  I  think  so.  Sir! — Yes,  I  knov/ so,  Sir  ? 
now,  Sir,  only  look  at  yourself — your  two  legs  kissing 
as  if  they  had  fallen  in  love  with  one  anotiier  ; — and 
your  arms  dingle  dangle,  like  the  fins  of  a  dying  tur- 
tle [tnimics  Imi]  'pon  my  soul,  Sir,  'twill  never  do,— 
pray,  Sir,  are  you  of  any  profession  ? 

Dow.  Yes,  Sir,  a  linen  draper  .' 

Fat.  A  linen  draper  !  an  excellent  business  ;  a 
very  good  business — you'll  get  more  by  that  than  by 
playing, — you  had  better  mind  your  thrumbs  and 
your  shop — and  don't  pester  me  any  more  with  your 
Richard  and  your — za,  za,  za. — this  is  a  genius  !— 
plague  upon  such  geniuses  I  say. 


SECTION  III. 

A  dialogue  lettoeen  Mr.  AddlsGii  cmd  Dr.  Sivifi. 

Dr.  Swift.  Surely,  Addison,  fortune  was  exceed- 
ingly bent  upon  playing  the  fool  (a  humour  her  la- 
dyship, as  well  as  most  other  ladies  of  very  great 
quality,  is  frequently  in)  when  she  made  you  amm- 
ister  of  state,  and  me  a  d'vine. 

Addison.  I  must  confess  we  were  both  of  us  out 
ef  our  elements.     But  you  do  not  mean  to  insinuate?, 


4)09  Dialogrws. 

ihat,  if  our  destiaies  Lad  been  reversed,  all  would 

have  heen  right  ? 

Sivift.  Yes,  I  do. — You  would  have  made  an  excel- 
lent bishop,  and  I  should  have  governed  Great  Brit- 
xiiii  as  I  did  Ireland,  with  an  absolute  sway,  while  I 
talked  of  nothing  but  liberty,  properly,  and  so  forth. 

Addison.  You  governed  the  mob  of  Ireland  ;  but 
I  never  heard  that  you  governed  the  kingdom.  A 
nation  and  a  mob  arc  difierent  things. 

Swijt.  Aye  ;  so  you  fellows  that  have  no  genius 
for  politics  may  suppose.  Bat  there  are  times  when, 
by  putting  himself  at  the  head  of  a  mob,  an  able  man 
may  get  to  the  head  of  the  nation.  Nay,  there  are 
times  when  the  nation  itself  is  a  mob,  and  may  be 
treated  as  such  by  a  skillful  observer. 

Addison.  I  do  not  deny  the  truth  of  your  axiom  ; 
but  is  there  no  danger,  that  froai  the  vif  issitudes  of 
Imrcan  affairs,  the  favourite  of  the  mob  should  be 
mobbed  in  his  turn  ? 

Sioift.  Sometimes  there  may  ;  but  I  risked  it,  and 
it  answered  my  purpose.  Ask  the  lord  lieutenants, 
who  were  forced  to  pay  court  to  me  instead  of  my 
courting  them,  wheilier  they  did  not  feel  my  superi- 
ority. And  if  I  could  make  myself  so  considerable 
when  I  was  only  a  dirty  dean  of  St.  Patrick's,  with- 
out a  seat  in  either  house  of  parliament  what  should 
I  have  done  if  fortune  had  placed  me  in  Er.gland, 
unincumbered  with  a  gown,  and  in  a  situation  to  mak& 
inyself  heard  iu  the  house  of  loids  or  of  commons  ? 

Jddison.  You  would  doubtless  have  done  very 
marvellous  acts  !  perhaps  you  might  have  then  been 
as  zealous  a  v>'higas  Lord  Wharton  himself;  or  if  the 
wliigs  have  oiTiiuded  the  statesmen,  as  they  unhappily 
did  the  doctor,  who  knows  but  yoii  might  have 
.'jrought  iu  the  Pretender  ?  pray  let  me  ask  you  one 
question  between  you  and  me  ;  if  you  had  been  first 
niiiiister  under  that  prince,  would  you  have  tolerated 
the  Protestant  religion  or  not  ? 

Sidft.  Ha  J  My.  Secretary,  are  you  witty  upon 
me  :  i.\o  you  think,   because  Sunderland  took  a  fan? 


Dialo^ircs.  401 

cy  to  make  you  a  great  man  in  ihe  state,  that  he  could 
also  make  you  as  great  in  wit  as  nature  made  me  ? 
No,  no  ;  wit  is  like  grace,  it  must  come  from  above. 
You  can  no  more  get  that  from  the  king,  than  my 
lords  the  bishops  can  the  other.  And  though  I  will 
own  you  had  some,  yet  believe  me,  my  friend,  it  was 
no  match  for  mine.  1  think  you  have  not  vanity 
enough  to  pretend  to  a  competition  with  me. 

Addison.  I  have  been  often  told  by  my  friends  that 
I  was  rather  too  modest  ;  so,  if  you  please,  I  wilt 
not  decide  this  dispute  for  myself,  but  refer  it  to  Mer- 
cury, the  go'J  of  wit,  who  happens  just  now  to  be 
coming  this  way,  Mith  a  soul  he  has  newly  brought 
to  the  shades. 

Hail  divine  Hermes  !  a  question  of  precedence  in 
the  class  of  wit  and  humour  over  w^hicli  you  preside, 
having  arisen  between  me  and  my  countryman,  Dr. 
Swift,  we  beg  leave 

Mercury.  Dr.  Swift  I  rejoice  to  see  you. — How 
does  my  old  lad  ?  How  does  honest  Lemuel  Gullivfr? 
Have  you  been  in  Lilliput  lately,  or  in  the  Flying 
Islaiuls,  or  with  your  good  nurse  Clumdalclitch  ? 
Pray,  when  did  you  eat  a  crust  with  Lord  Peter  ?  Is 
Jack  as  mad  still  as  ever  ?  I  hear  the  poor  fellow  13 
almost  got  well  by  more  gentle  usage.  If  he  had  but 
more  food  he  would  be  as  much  in  his  senses  as  bro- 
ther Martin  himself.  But  Slartin,  they  tell  me,  has 
spawned  a  strange  brood  of  fellows,  called  Method- 
ists, Moravians,  Kutchinsonians,  who  are  madder 
than  Jack  was  in  his  worst  days.  It  is  a  pity  you 
are  not  alive  again  to  be  at  them  ;-tliey  would  Uo.  ex- 
cellent food  for  your  tooth  ;  and  a  sliarp  tooth  it  was 
as  ever  was  placed  in  the  gum  of  a  niorial  •,  aye,  and 
a  strong  one  too.  The  hardest  food  would  not  break 
it,  and  it  could  pierce  the  thickest  skulls.  Indeed  it' 
was  like  <nie  of  Cerlterus's  teeth  ;  one  should  not 
have  thought  it  belonged  to  a  man. — Mr.  Addison, 
I  beg  your  pardon,  Ishould  have  spoktn  to  you  soou- 
cr -,  but  I  was  so  struck  with  xhe,  sight  of  the  doc- 
tor, that  I  forgot  for  a  time  the  respect  due  to  yoiK 


4^i:l  Dialogue^. 

Smfl.  Addison,  I  think  our  dispute  is  decided  Le 
fore  the  judge  lias  heard  the  cause. 

Addison.  I  own  it  is  in  your  favour  and  I  submit 
— but 

Mercunj.  Do  not  be  discouraged,  friend  Addison. 
Apollo  perhaps  would  have  given  a  different  judg- 
ment. I  am  a  wit,  and  a  rouge,  and  a  foe  to  all  dig- 
nity. Swift  and  I  naturally  like  one  another  :  he 
■worships  me  more  than  Jupiter,  and  I  honour  him 
more  than  Homer  :  but  yet,  I  assure  you,  I  have  a 
great  value  for  you. — Sir  Roger  de  Coverly,  Will 
Iloneyfcorab,  Will  Wimble,  the  country  gentleman  in 
the  Freeliolder,  and  twenty  more  characters  drawn 
with  the  finest  strokes  of  natural  wit  and  humour  in 
your  excellent  writings,  seat  you  very  high  in  the 
class  of  authors,  though  not  quite  so  high  as  the 
dean  of  St  Patrick's.  Perhaps  you  might  have  come 
nearer  to  him,  if  the  decency  of  your  nature  and  cau- 
tiousness of  your  judgment  would  have  given  yoa 
leave.  But  if  in  the  spirit  of  his  wit  he  has  the  advan- 
tage, how  much  does  he  yield  to  you  in  all  the  polite 
and  elegant  graces;  in  the  fine  touches  of  delicate  sen- 
timent ;  in  developing  the  secret  springs  of  the  soul  ; 
in  shewing  all  the  mild  lights  and  shades  of  a  charac- 
ter ;  in  marking  distiricily  every  line,  and  every  soft 
gradation  of  tints  wJiich  would  escape  the  common 
eye  !  who  ever  painted  like  you  the  beautiful  parts  of 
human  nature,  and  brought  them  out  from  under  the 
shade  even  of  the  greatest  simplicity,  or  the  most  ri- 
diculous weaknesses  ;  so  that  we  are  forced  to  admire 
and  feel  that  we  venerate,  even  while  we  are  laugh- 
ing ?  Swift  could  do  nothing  that  approaches  to  this. 
He  could  draw  an  ill  face  very  well,  or  caricature  a 
good  one  with  a  masterly  hand  :  but  there  was  all  his 
power  ;  and,  if  I  am  to  speak  as  a  god,  a  worthless 
power  it  is.  Yours  is  divine  :  it  tends  to  improve  and 
esalt  human  nature. 

Sivift.  Pray,  good  Mercury,  (if  I  may  have  leave 
to  say  a  word  for  myself,)  do  you  think  that  my  tal- 
ent was  of  no  use  to  correct  human  nature?  Is  whip^ 
^ing  of  no  use  to  mend  naughty  boys  ? 


Diai0giies.  4©i« 

Mercury.  Men  are  not  so  patieut  of  whipping  as 
boys,  and  I  seldom  have  known  arongli  satirist  mend 
them.  But  I  will  allows  that  yon  have  done  some 
good  in  tiiat  nay,  though  not  half  so  much  as  Addi- 
son did  in  his.  And  now  you  are  here,  ii"  Pluto  and 
Prosperine  woukl  tal<e  my  advice,  they  would  dis- 
pose of  you  both  in  this  manner: — When  any  hero 
comes  hither  from  eartli,  who  wants  to  be  humbled, 
Cas  most  heroes  do")  they  should  set  Swift  upon  him 
to  bring  him  down.  The  same  godd  oftke  he  may 
frequently  do  to  a  saint  swoln  too  much  witli  the  wind 
of  spiritual  pride,  or  to  a  philosopher,  vain  of  his 
»isdoiu  add  virtue.  He  will  soon  shew  the  first  that 
he  cannot  be  holy  without  being  humble;  and  the 
last,  that  with  all  his  boasted  morality,  he  is  but  a 
Inciter  kind  of  Yahoo.  I  would  also  have  him  apply 
his  anticosractic  wash  to  the  painted  face  of  female 
vanity,  and  his  rod,  which  draws  blood  at  every  stroke, 
to  the  hard  i)ack  of  indolent  folly  or  petulent  wit.  But 
you,  Mr.  Addison,  should  be  employed  to  comfort 
and  raise  the  spirits  of  those  whose  good  and  noble 
souls  are  dejected  with  a  sense  of  some  infirmities  in 
their  nature.  To  them  you  should  hold  your  fair  and 
charitable  mirror,  which  would  bring  to  their  sight 
all  their  hidden  perfection,  cast  over  the  rest  a  soften- 
ing shade,  and  put  them  in  a  temper  fit  for  Llysium 
—Adieu  :  1  must  nov.'  return  to  my  business  above. 

■"^"  " -JJlLii,..  '- 

SECTION  ly. 

Parentax  Love. 
Snter  Job    Thornberry  {in  a  night  gown)   and   Buf^ 

Bur.  Don't  take  on  so^-don't  you,  now  pray,  lis- 
ten to  reason. 

Job>  I  won't.  Blir.  Pray,  do. 

Job.  I  won't.  Reason  bid  me  love  my  child,  and 
help  my  friend  : — what's  the  consequence?  my  friend 
has  run  one  way,  and  broke  up  my  trade  ;  my  daugh- 
ter has  run  another,  and  broke  my- No  she  shall 

never  have  it  to  say  she  broke  my  heart.  Jf  1  hang 
niysclf  for  grief,  she  shan't  knew  she  made  mc. 


10  J!  Dialogues^ 

Bur.  Well,  but,  master 

Job.  And  reason  told  me  to  taks  you  into  ray  shop 
when  the  lat  churchwardeus  starved  you  at  the  work- 
liodse — hang  their  want  of  feelin.e;  for  it; — and  you 
were  thu.np'dabout,  a  poor  unoffending,  ragii^edruinp- 

ed  boy,   as   you  were 1  wonder  you  hav'n't  run 

away  from  me,  too. 

Bur,  Tiial's  the  6rst  real  unkind  word  you  ever 
said  to  me.  I've  sprinkled  your  shop  twoand-twen- 
ty  years,  and  never  niiss'd  a  morning. 

Job.  The  bailiffs  are  below,  clearing  the  goods  ; — 
you  wou't  have  the  trouble  any  longer. 

Bur.  Trouble!  look  ye,  old  Job  Thornberr}' 

Job.  Well !  What,  you  are  going  to  be  saucy  to  me, 
now  I  am  ruined  ? 

Bur.  Dun't  say  one  cutting  thing  after  another. 
You  have  been  as  noted,  all  round  our  town,  for  being 
a  kind  man,  as  l-,eing  a  blunt  one. 

Job.  Blunt  or  sharp,  I've  been  honest.  Let  tliera 
look  at  my  ledger — tliey'll  find  it  right.  I  began  up- 
on a  little  :  I  made  that  little  great,  by  industry ;  i 
never  cringed  to  a  customer,  to  get  him  into  my  books, 
that  1  might  hamper  him  with  an  overcharged  bill,  for 
long  credit  ;  I  earned  my  fair  profits ;  I  paid  my  way; 
I  break  by  the  treachery  of  a  friend,  and  my  first  div- 
idend will  be  seventeen  shillings  in  the  pound.  I 
wish  every  tradesman  may  clap  his  hand  on  his  heart, 
and  say  as  much,  when  he  asks  a  creditor  to  sign  his 
G-ertificate. 

B  tr.  ' Twas  I  kept  your  ledger  all  the  time. 

Job.   I  knovv  you  did. 

Bur.  From  the  time  you  took  me  out  of  the  work- 
house. 

Job.  Paha!  rot  the  workhouse  ! 

Bur.  You  never  raention'dil  to  me,  yourself,  till 
to  day. 

Job.  I  said  it  in  a  hurry. 

Bur.  And  I've  always  remembered  it  at  leisure.  I 
don't  wan!  to  I'ras?, hull  ho])e  I've  been  found  faithful, 
it's  rather  hard  to  tell  poor  John  Bur,  the  workhouse 
boy,  after  clothing,  feeding,   and  making   him  youi' 


Dialogues.  405 

man  of  trust,  for  two  and-twenty  years,  that  you  won- 
der he  don't  run  away  from  you,  now  you  are  iu 
trouble. 

Job.  f  Affected  J  John,  I  beg  your  panlou.  f  Stretch- 
ing out  his  hand.  J 

Bar.  f  taking  Ids  hand.  J  Don't  say  a  word  more 
about  it.  Job.  I — ■ — 

Bur.  Pray,  now  master,  don't  say  any  more  !  come, 
be  a  man  !  get  on  your  things  ;  and  face  the  bailiffs, 
that  are  runiaging  the  goods. 

Job.  I  can't,  John  :  I  can't.  My  heart's  heavier 
than  all  the  iron,  and  brass,  in  ray  shop. 

Bur.  Nay,  consider  what  confusion  ! — ;)Iuck  uj) 
courage  ;  do,  now  ! 

Job,  Well,  I'll  try. 

Bur.  Aye  that's  right :  here's  your  clothes.  fTa' 
king  them  from  the  back  of  a  chair  J  They'll  plaj 
the  d'jce  with  all  the  pots  and  pans,  if  you  aren't  by. 

Why,  I  warrantyou'll  do  !  biess  you  what  should 

ai!  you  ? 

Job.  Ail  me  ?  When  you  have  a  daughter,  John 
Bur,  and  she  runs  away  from  you,  you'll  know  what 
alls  me. 

Bur.  Come  here's  your  coat  and  waiscoat.  CGo- 
ing  to  kelp  him  on  wich  his  clothes. J  This  is  \ht 
waistcoat  young  mistress  work'd,  with  Jier  own  liands, 
for  your  birth  day  five  years  ago.  Cunie,  get  into 
it  as  quick  as  you  can. 

Job.  CThrowing  it  on  the  floor  violently. J  I'd  as 
lieve  get  into  my  coffin.  She'll  have  nie  there  soon. 
Psha  !  rot  it !  I'm  going  to  snivel.  Eur,  go,  and 
get  rae  another. 

Bur.  Are  you  sure  you  won't  put  it  on  ? 

Job.  No,  I  won't.     {^MX pauses.^  No,  I  tel!  ycj; 

\Exit  Bur. 
How  proud  I  was  of  that  waistcoat,  rive  years  ago  ! 
I  little  ihouglit  what  would  happen  now,  %vhen  [  sat 
in  it,  at  the  top  of  my  table,  with  ail  my  neighbours, 
to  celebrate  the  day  ; — there  was  CoUop,  on  one  side 
of  me,  and  his  wife  on  the  other  ;  and  my  daughter, 
Mary,  sat  at  the  further  end — smiling  so  sweetly— 


406  Dialogues. 

like  an  artful,  good-fornothinc^ 1  shou'dii't  like 

to  throw   away   a  waistcoat  neithef :   I  may  as  well 

put    it  on. Yes — it  would   be  poor  spite  not   to 

put   it  on.     C tutting   h's  arms   into  it. J She's 

breaking  my   heart  :  but,    I'll  wear  it,   I'll   wear  it. 
{^Buttoning  it,   and  crying  invohintarily.J      It's   my 

cliild's Slie's  undutiful — ungrateful — barbarous 

but  she's  my  child — and  slie'JI  never  work  me- 

another. 

SECTION  V. 

CONJCGAI,  LOVE. 

Duke,  Juliana,  and  Balthazar. 

Duke. Put  up  your  weapon,  Sir, — 

'Tis  tlie  worst  argument  a  man  can  use  ; 
So  let  it  be  the  last !  As  for  your  daughter. 
She  passes  by  another  title  here, 
In  which  your  whole  authority  is  sunk— 
lly  lawful  wife. 

Balth.  Lawful'. — his  lawful  wife! 
J  shall  go  mad.    Did  you  not  basely  steal  her, 
Uuder  a  vile  preiencc  ? 

D)ike.  What  1  have  done  I'll  answer  to  the  law. — 
or  w}jat  do  you  conopiain  ? 

Balth.  Are  you  not 

A  most  notorious  seifconfess'd  impostor  ? 

Buke.  True  ■  I  am  somewhat  dwindled  from  the  state 
In  vrhich  you  lately  knew  me  ;  nor  alone 
Should  ray  exceeding  change  provoke  your  wonder. 
You'll  uad  your  daughter  is  not  what  she  was. 

Balth.  How,  Juliana  ? 

Jul.  'Tis  indeed  most  true. 

I  left  you,  Sir,  a  fro  ward  foolish  girl, 
Full  of  capricious  thoughts  and  fiery  spirits, 
Which,  without  judgment,  I  would  vent  on  all. 
But  I  have  learnt  this  truth  indelibly — 
That  modesty,  in  deed,  in  word,  and  thought, 
Is  the  prime  grace  of  woman  ;  and  with  that. 
More  than  by  frowning  looks  and  saucy  speeches, 
JShe  may  persuade  the  man  that  riglitly  loves  her., 


Dialogves.  407 

Whom  she  was  ne'er  intended  to  command. 

Baltli.  Amazement !   Why,  this  melamorphosis 

Exceeds  his  own  ! What  spells,  what  cunning 

Nvitchcraft  has  he  employ'd? 

Jul.  None  :  he  has  simply  taught  me 
To  look  into  myself:  his  powerful  reth'ric 
Hath  with  strong  influence  impress'd  my  heart, 
And  made  me  see  at  length  the  thing  I  have  been, 
And  what  I  am,  Sir. 

Balth.  Are  you  content  to  live  with  him  ? 

Jul.  Content ! — I  am  most  happy  ! 

Balth.  Can  you  forget  your  crying  wrongs  ? 

Jul.  Not  quite,  Sir: 

They  sometimes  serve  us  to  make  merry  with. 

Balth.  How  like  a  villain  he  abus'd  your  father  ? 

Jul.  You  will  forgive  him  that  for  my  sake  ! 

Balth.  Never! 

Duke.    Why,  then,  'tis  plain,  you  seek  your  own 
revenge, 
And  not  your  daughter's  happiness  ! 

Balth.  No  matter :  I  charge  you,  on  your  duty  as 
my  daughter,  follow  me! 

Duke.  On  a  wife's  obedience,  I  charge  you,  slirnott 
111.  You,  Sir,  are  my  fatlier  : 

At  the  bare  mention  of  th^t  hallow'd  name, 
A  thousand  recollections  rise  within  me, 
To  witness  you  have  ever  been  a  kind  one  ; — 
This  is  my  husband,  Sir ! 

Balth.  Thy  husl-;and  ;  well 

Jul.  'Tis  fruitless  now  to  think  upon  means 
He  us'd — I  am  irrevocably  his  : 
And  when  he  pluck'd  rae  from  my  parent  tree 
To  graft  me  on  himself,  he  gather'd  with  mc 
My  love,  ray  duty,  ray  obedience  ; 
And,  by  adoption,  I  am  bound  aij  strictly 
To  do  his  reasonable  bidi'ing  nov.', 
As  once  to  follow  vours." 


403  noUa. 

SECTION  VI. 

Speech  of  Holla froyn  Sheridan's  Pizzare. 

My  brave  associates — partners  of  my  toil,  my  feel- 
ings, and  my  fame  !  Can  Rolla's  words  add  vigour 
1o  tlie  virtuous  energies  which  inspire  your  hearts? 
No  ; — yon  have  judged  as  I  have,  the  fouhiess  of  the 
crafty  ])lea  by  which  these  bold  invaders  would  delude 
you, — Your  generous  spirit  has  compared,  as  mine 
has,  the  motives  which,  in  a  war  like  this, can  animate 
i/icir  minds  and  ours, —  T/iei/  by  a  stringe  frenzy 
driven,  figJu  for  power,  for  plunder,  and  extended  rule 
— ?ve  for  our  country,  our  altars,  and  our  homes. — 
T/ie7/  follow  an  adventurer  Avhom  they  fear,  and  obey 
a  power  which  they  hate  ; — ive  serve  a  monarch 
whom  we  love, — a  God  whom  we  adore. — Whene'er 
ihey  move  in  anger,  desolation  tracts  tlieir  progress  ! 
V/here'er  they  pause  in  amity,  affliction  mourns  their 
friends — They  boast,  they  come  but  to  improve  our 
state,  enlar,a:e  our  thoughts,  and  free  us  from  the  yoke 
of  error: — Yes — they  will  give  enlightened  freedom 
to  our  rdinds,  who  are  the.mselves  the  slaves  of  pas- 
sion, avarice,  and  pride  — They  ofler  us  their  protec- 
tion— Yes,  such  protection  as  vultures  give  to  lambs, 
covering  and  devouring  them. — Tliey  call  on  us  to 
barter  all  of  good  we  have  inherited  acd  proved,  for 
llie  desperate  chance  of  something  bcter  v.hich  ihey 
promise. — Be  our  plain  answer  this  :  The  throne  zc-e 
honour  is  ihtp'ople^s  choice  ; — the  laws  we  reverence 
are  our  brave  father's  legacy  : — the  faith  we  follow 
leaches  us  to  live  in  bonds  of  charity  v,  iih  all  man- 
kind, and  die  with  hope  of  Uiss  beyond  the  grave. — 
Tell  your  invaders  this,  and  teil  tliem  too,  we  seek  no 
cb.ange  ;  and  least  of  all,  such  change  as  they  wouLd 
bric2-  us. 


